The Mystery of Wyatt House
by WynterSnow
Summary: A mystery involving why Steve was kidnapped and taken from his family. It involves the Civil War house given to him and Kayla years earlier. Most of the primary characters are featured as they were back then, but basically revolves around Steve and Kayla and Kim and Shane, since I was never satisfied with how they were reunited. "John" is Roman, as he was back then.
1. Chapter 1

I wrote this A/U story because I was not satisfied with the way the character of Steve Johnson was brought back into the series after his supposed murder, and I have not particularly liked the progression of some of the other characters as well in the years that followed.

In this story, Roman is the way he was when Steve disappeared. He looks like Drake Hogestin, and he and Marlena are still married. Justin and Adrienne are also still married and living in Dallas, where they had moved.

This story addresses things that were never fully explained in the series, such as why Steve was taken, who was buried in his grave, what was his kidnapper after, etc.

Children of the characters in the story are their correct ages, not SORASED.

Jack is still alive and living in Salem with Jennifer.

Ava does not exist, and because he does not have full amnesia, Steve had no cause to meet her even if she did.

Many classic characters are seen here and there, but the main story involves two legacy couples, Steve and Kayla, and Shane and Kim.

Prologue

Late October, 1990

"Is he dead?"

The words were spoken with quiet trepidation, and had he been a religious man, he might have prayed that it was not so. Fate could not be so cruel as to rob him of the one chance he had been given to recover some of the status and wealth he had enjoyed before his fall from grace, before his time served in prison.

His body gave an involuntary shudder at the thought of being forced to return to the prison cell, where thieves, murderers, and rapists lived in such close proximity, all of them lumped together as if they were all the same. But he was not like them; he was an elite and did not belong there. The other prisoners had leered at him for his pompous attitude and mocked his fine speech. He had been one of Britain's finest, before it had all fallen apart, reduced to the status of common criminal.

His hands clenched and unclenched with bitter exasperation. No one would take away from him this new opportunity. He simply would not allow it!

His eyes fell upon the physician examining the patient who lay prone on the cot against the wall of the basement room in the cottage that had been provided by his benefactor, the man who had saved him from the disgrace of the prison cell that had been his home for those terrible years, a man whose face he had yet to see. Seated on the edge of the cot, the physician pressed a stethoscope to the bare chest of the patient, listening to the faint flutter of life.

"No, he's alive, but just barely." His eyes swept the cold cinderblock walls and floor, noting the lack of a sterile setting. The quiet hiss of the ventilator that breathed for the patient was the only sounds until he spoke again. "He's in a deep coma. I'm not sure I can give him proper care in this environment. This man should be in a hospital, where I have easier access to medications and assistance."

"You know that is impossible."

The physician shrugged. He knew that, but his training and his oath often contradicted with the illicit and often unethical responsibilities for which he had been hired. He draped the stethoscope around his neck, and his eyes were drawn to the tattoo on the man's chest. "That is an interesting tattoo," he observed. "Looks like a knife or a dagger of some sort."

"It is inconsequential," the other man snapped. "The only thing you need to concern yourself with is keeping him alive and bringing him back to health."

The doctor glanced at him, wondering of the anger his comment had generated, then lifted the lid of the patient's remaining eye and flicked a penlight to test the reaction of his pupil. The other eye was covered by a black patch. "Just curious." He flipped off the penlight and returned it to his pocket. "The pupil is reactive, but sluggish." He leaned back, thoughtfully, contemplating the patient's condition. "It appears he was doing fine until he was given him that last dose while he was in the funeral home. He appears to have had an adverse reaction to it."

"Why now?" the other man demanded. "Everything was going so well, and now, because of this, the entire project is in jeopardy!"

"You understood the risks when you came to us," the physician replied calmly. "These drugs have only been tested on animals, with inconsistent results. That is why they have never been tested on humans. There was simply no way to guarantee the outcome. You said you were willing to take the risk."

"We were willing to take the risk because we were led to believe that failure was unlikely. In fact, you promoted this drug as the solution to our problems of how to get Johnson out of Salem without detection. You recall, you said it would mimic death whilst being undetectable even by medical professions, which it has been, but that he would be easily revived later, which clearly has not happened. Why did he do well with the other doses, but not the last one?"

"I don't know. The dosage is a very complex calculation based on many variables. I can only assume that too much was given or it was given over a period of time that was too extensive. The doses were never intended to go on as long as it did."

"It could not be helped. He lay in repose for two days in the funeral home. He had to appear dead during that time. It would not have served our purpose had he awakened during the funeral."

"No, I can see where that would have been a bit of a problem." He chuckled with amusement at an image that came to mind. "Not to mention the fact that it would have given the guests quite a turn to see the deceased -"

"You think this is a _joke_?" the man snapped with such anger that the physician looked up into his face, flushed with irritation. "Damn it, _we need him!"_ In spite of the blind anger, his voice had taken on a quality of desperation. "Without Johnson, there is no project! You're the one who developed this drug. Isn't there some antidote you can give him? Something that will revive him?"

"There is no antidote. We're just going to have to keep him on i.v. fluids and the ventilator, and let the drugs leave his system naturally. And hope for the best. I'm doing my best to keep him alive, but even if he lives, I can't guarantee what he'll be like. Since we've never used these drugs on humans, we have no way of knowing what kind of long term effects they might have. I have to say also that it was a mistake to bring him over here yesterday. His condition was far too fragile to travel that distance. We damn near lost him last night."

"Things were getting too hot in Salem. His family is seeking the man they believe murdered him. We could not risk the possibility of discovery, and besides, here in Britain we're closer to the security measures we'll need to contain him until we can extract the information we require." There was a long moment of silence before he spoke again. "Our benefactor will be very displeased if this causes a delay in obtaining the goods. He is desperate to recover those items."

The physician had never been provided the name of the man who paid for his services. Always, he was referred to as _the benefactor_. But although curious, he knew better than to ask the identity of this mysterious entity who corresponded only with the man who stood before him, a nervous man with a receding hairline and a pompous air. Still, he wondered what it was that the patient apparently had in his possession that was so desired that the benefactor would go to such extreme lengths to acquire it.

"As a matter of curiosity, did he say what those items are?" the doctor asked.

"That is not our concern. He is anxious to acquire them, he's paying handsomely for us to help him get them, and that is all we need to know. If we cannot deliver Johnson, he may back out of this operation altogether, and try to find some other way of getting them. When I notify him of this wrinkle, he's going to ask for odds. What do I tell him?"

"Fifty-fifty," the doctor replied, promptly. "He can go either way. The next few days and weeks will be critical. If we can keep him alive that long, he may have a chance of coming through this. I cannot give a timeline, though," he added quickly, sensing that it would be the next question. "These drugs are highly volatile and unpredictable. We may be in this for a good long while."

The other man heaved a deep sigh. _The benefactor_ would not be pleased by the delays.

Chapter One

June, 2006

Los Angeles, California

Dr. Kayla Brady Johnson pressed the tab on the tea dispenser in the hospital staff break room, and watched as a thin stream of transparent amber colored liquid poured into the Styrofoam cup she had already filled with ice. When it was full, she moved wearily to the over-sized vinyl sofa and collapsed into the overstuffed cushion facing the sound proofed picture window and the silent traffic that moved up and down the busy boulevard. After taking a sip of the beverage, she leaned her head against the plush back rest, grateful for the few moments of respite.

The swinging lounge door opened and a second physician entered the room and paused briefly to exchange a smile with her friend and colleague before proceeding to the various beverage and snack machines. Snatching a cup identical to Kayla's, she picked up a coffee pot from the hot plate on the coffee maker, and poured a cup of the steaming black liquid.

"Looks like we're both in need of a caffeine pick-me-up," Dr. Ruthie Simmons quipped as she opened powdered cream and sugar and emptied the packets into the cup, mixing it into the beverage with a red stir-straw.

Kayla gave her a tired smile. "I had forgotten how busy the E.R. can be. It's been a long time since I worked down here."

"Yeah, they told me you volunteered your day off to cover for Dr. Kendall today. That was nice of you to do that."

"Well, Stephanie is spending the day at the beach with her friends, so I figured I might as well be here as at home alone."

"This is a very challenging area to work. But rewarding, too."

Kayla took a sip of her tea and savored in the cold soothing quality of the beverage. "Yeah, it is. This is the first break I've had since lunch! I'm glad he'll be back tomorrow, but this has been a good experience for me. Reminds me of the importance of what we do."

Ruthie laughed as she tossed the stir straw into the trash, then she joined her friend on the sofa. "You have such a positive attitude, Kayla. I wish everyone could be like you."

"Yeah, I guess I do," Kayla admitted. "Comes from my upbringing, I suppose. My mom and pop were such a good influence on us kids. I just hope I'm as good a parent to my daughter as they were to me."

"How can you even doubt yourself? You're one of the best parents I've ever seen. If I could give out a 'Parent of the Year" award, you'd be the first person to cross my mind."

"Well, I appreciate you saying so. She's the reason I decided to see patients nine to five, so I'd be at work while she was in school, and home when she was. Except in the summer," she added. "That's been a bit more problematic."

"Well, I've found that second guessing yourself never does any good. You do the best with what you've got. How old is Stephanie getting to be now?"

"She's sixteen, and I'm having trouble believing it! She grew up so fast!"

"I know what you mean," Ruthie said wistfully. "Time flies. Sometimes I can't even imagine having a child as old as mine . . . . . And then I look in the mirror!"

Kayla laughed. "It's kind of a shock, isn't it?" She sighed, wistfully. "I want her to stay a little girl forever, and then I realize that if she does, she'll never get to experience life. I couldn't deny her that chance."

"You're a typical parent. So, are you seeing anyone these days? I heard that a fellow up in administration was saying some very nice things about you." She gave Kayla a teasing nudge with her elbow.

Kayla nearly choked on her tea. "Me? No!"

The protest was spoken so vehemently that Ruthie laughed. "It isn't that bad! You're an attractive woman! You should be going out, kicking up your heels a bit!" Even as she said the words, though, she was aware that while Kayla Johnson was one of the most admired by the men on staff, she was also considered to be one of the most unapproachable. Somehow, she was able to be friendly and aloof at the same time, and only a very few had been granted the privilege of a date.

"I really don't have time these days. I'm a full time parent, and Stephanie comes first in my life. A lot of guys resent that. I remember one guy I went out with once or twice. He just couldn't understand why Stephanie's Christmas pageant was so important, why I would rather go to that than his fancy office party. I just don't need the drama that dating and romance brings."

"You obviously didn't feel that way once upon a time," Ruthie teased.

Kayla gave a fond smile as the face of her late husband flashed into her mind. "Yeah, but Steve was special. One of a kind. I just wish he could see his little baby girl, how she's grown and blossomed. How beautiful and stubborn and independent she is. And so much like him."

"Well, maybe he can," Ruthie said, kindly.

"Yeah, maybe he can," Kayla agreed with a smile.

The hospital intercom interrupted their conversation before anything else could be said. DR. JOHNSON, REPORT TO E.R. ROOM 4. DR. JOHNSON TO ROOM 4. DR. SIMMONS, REPORT TO E.R. ROOM 7. DR. SIMMONS TO ROOM 7

"Well, break's over," Ruthie said.

The two women rose from their seats and placed their barely touched drinks on the counter top, hoping to return for them soon, then pushed through the lounge doors and rushed down the corridor to the row of emergency rooms that were positioned near the ambulance bay.

Leicestershire County, England

"Cooperation on your part will bring an end to this, Johnson."

The words were spoken with quiet resolve by a young man whose grim face was pale from the torture he was committed to witness, revolted by it, yet powerless to stop it. So he urged compliance from the prisoner, hoping to bring it to a swift end, even though he knew what the final end would likely bring once the information they sought was finally achieved.

"Just tell us what we need to know, and we won't have to go through this again," he urged. "You must be getting tired; we're all getting tired."

Seated in a straight-backed chair, his hands cuffed together behind him so that his arms were around the wide, slatted back, effectively securing him to the wooden seat, Steve Johnson was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life, but he knew that no answer he could give them would satisfy their questions. So he glared back at the man he knew only as Carlton, and bit back the hostile remark that lingered on the tip of his tongue, a bitter retort that it was not he, Carlton, who was being subjected to the cruelty of torture, so there was no "we" involved. It was his nature to fight back, both bodily and with verbal barbs, but he had learned the hard way that complaining would only result in another jolt of electricity traveling through his body. So he remained silent, his green eye blazing with resentment and confusion.

Repeatedly, throughout the duration of his captivity, his captors had asked bizarre questions for which he had no answer, strange questions about his house, and his uninformative replies angered them. Particularly the quiet one whose face Steve had yet to see. The chair in which he was confined was positioned so that his back was to the door, allowing the man who controlled the switch to remain anonymous.

He had no recollection of the beginning of his confinement or how long he had actually been there, but they had initially questioned him without the benefit of painful persuasion. They had been curiously patient with his inability to remember certain details, waiting for his memory to sharpen as he had come out from under whatever they had done to him, but as the time had passed, they had become intolerant of his inability to provide the results they expected, and they had resorted to various methods of brutality in an effort to obtain their desired response. Unfortunately, they had never accepted his answers as fact.

"I don't know!" Steve replied, frustrated, the same answer he had given untold times over the years. Perspiration trickled down his back and beaded on his forehead. The edges of the chair back were pressing into the skin of his arms, leaving a painful indentation. "How many times do I have to tell you? I have no idea what you're talking about!"

"That is not the correct answer," said the voice positioned somewhere behind him. The voice was calm, polished, distinctly British, and seemed vaguely familiar, yet he was unable to place it anywhere outside the room in which he now sat, totally at his tormenter's mercy. Although Steve did not know the identity of the man who owned it, he knew that this man was calling the shots. Carlton and Jennings, the two men who had been hired to look after him, deferred to him, often with apprehension, and Steve could only wonder what their association really was; what kept them working for a man they so clearly feared.

Hearing the faint impression of movement behind him, Steve's body automatically tensed, waiting for the mild jolt of electricity that usually followed his responses. It was not a strong jolt, just enough to be uncomfortable, to rattle his nerves. It rippled through his body, and then it was gone, replaced by a surge of white-hot anger and the twitching of traumatized muscles.

"If I knew what it is you want, I'd tell you!" he shouted. A vein in his forehead throbbed in sync with his pounding heart.

Carlton, he noticed, had closed his eyes and turned his face away during the jolt of electricity, unwilling to watch the way his body stiffened in reaction to it. In those gray eyes, he saw traces of sympathy and regret, indicating that he found no pleasure in the prisoner's misery, yet he was powerless to stop the torment, taking his orders without question from the man whose face Steve had never seen, yet who was always a mysterious presence during the interrogations.

"It doesn't need to be like this," said the disembodied voice, still smooth and unruffled by the misery he was inflicting on the American. "You're being very foolish. Why don't you just give up the information we seek? That way, it will be finished and you won't be subjected to any more of this discomfort."

In a burst of rage, Steve struggled violently against the restraints in a futile attempt to free himself. "I don't know what it is you want!" When he had exhausted himself, he slumped in the chair, panting. "I don't understand why you're doing this to me! Who the hell are you?"

"My identity is of no consequence to you," the voice responded. "You are very stubborn, Mr. Johnson, and a very proficient liar, from everything I've heard about you," the voice said calmly, almost gently. "You practically made a career out of it when you were younger, didn't you?"

"You don't know anything about me!" Steve retorted.

"I know a great deal about you, Mr. Johnson," the voice responded, genially. "I always make it a point to know as much as possible about the people I deal with. And, given your history, I know that you must certainly be lying to me. You know exactly what I am after, and you know precisely where it is hidden. Isn't that so?"

"No! It isn't so'!" Steve shouted. "Tell me what it is you want from me, and I'll try to help you find it! How can I help you when I don't know what it is you want?"

From Carlton's expression, Steve knew that the other man was reaching for the switch again, and he tensed, waiting for the jolt of electricity again. In an apparent effort to abort it, the subordinate quickly said, "Tell us about the house. Is there a secret room, or perhaps a hidden safe? Maybe there is a wall panel that has a vault behind it. Or maybe floorboards with a secret compartment underneath."

Steve was shaking his head negatively during Carlton's questions, trying to hurry the end of the interrogation "You've asked me that before, and the answer is the same. There is nothing like that in the house! Kayla and I remodeled it when we moved in. I know every inch of that house, and there is nothing like that inside it." He shifted in the chair, trying to relieve the pressure on his arms.

The low voltage rippled through him again without warning, and he felt his muscles contract in reaction to it. The shock lasted longer that time, suggesting that the man operating the switch had experienced a burst of anger or frustration at his lack of progress, and was punishing him harshly for his continued resistance. Steve clenched his teeth, determined he would not give his tormenter the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

Alarmed by the duration of the electrocution, Carlton stepped forward, apparently intending to stop it. "Mr. Vaughn!" he said reproachfully, then froze, realizing he had just committed an infraction. His gaze rested on the soft-spoken man, apologetically.

The paralyzing current stopped abruptly, and Steve slumped over again, aware of the tension that lingered in the air between the other two men. Carlton glanced apprehensively at Steve, whose chin had dropped onto his chest in exhaustion. He gave no outward indication that he had recognized or even noticed the name that had been spoken so carelessly.

But he had heard. Keeping his eye closed, pretending to have reached the point of collapse, he waited, hoping they would let down their guard and reveal to him exactly what it was they wanted. The name was familiar; Vaughn. Where had he heard that name before? It danced tantalizingly on the edge of his memory, refusing to come fully into focus.

A moment later, he felt fingertips applied to his neck, checking for a pulse. "I think he's unconscious," Carlton said, hopefully. "I don't think he heard."

"You had better hope he didn't," Vaughn, snapped. "There must be no connection made tying me to the I.S.A. You are the only person who knows that detail, but if word got out about it, it would jeopardize our ability to obtain the devices that secure his continued imprisonment. I was high profile there, much more so than you. That was a careless mistake, the likes of which will not be tolerated! There is much at stake here."

"I know. I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't, or you will be replaced!"

"I was just afraid you were going to kill him," Carlton said, his voice sounding curiously like a child pleading with his father to disregard a punishment for a transgression. Steve understood that being giving walking papers would not involve simply accepting a final pay and leaving.

"Now that would not serve my purpose, would it?" There was a long pause, followed by a discouraged sigh. "This has gone on far longer than I had anticipated," he said, his voice calming. "Johnson has been exceedingly stubborn in turning over the information we seek. First we lost valuable time waiting for him to recover from the effects of the I.S.A. drug, and now this. He should have broken long before now."

"He's been saying all along that he doesn't know," Carlton suggested. "Maybe he's telling the truth."

"He knows," Vaughn said with confidence. Footsteps approached from behind, and Steve knew the man had moved closer. He could hear him breathing, smell the particularly strong fragrance of his after-shave. "It's part of his family history, a Johnson secret, if you will."

Steve had to use great care not to react to the startling comment. Johnson family secret? There was no family secret! What the hell was he talking about?

"No, he has the answers we need," Vaughn continued. "I just don't know how to extract it from him. His strength of resolve is far greater than I had anticipated." Another lengthy pause followed before he said, "Unless . . . ."

"Unless what?"

"I believe the time has come to track down Mrs. Johnson. It could be that she might help us."

Again, Steve had to use every ounce of resolve he possessed to keep from reacting to the casual suggestion that his beloved Kayla was being placed in danger, but in spite of the fear and outrage he was careful to keep his body still, feigning unconsciousness. The more he learned, the better his chances of figuring out what they were doing and perhaps what it was that they wanted.

"I thought you were confident that the wife is unaware of the secret hiding place," Carlton reminded him. "You said –"

"True," Vaughn interrupted. "But a threat to her health and safety might just be enough to convince Mr. Johnson here to cooperate with us fully. I had hoped it would not be necessary, since apprehending her and bringing her into the country may prove a great deal more difficult than what we experienced with him, but I think we have reached an impasse. I spoke with our benefactor this morning, and he is growing more and more impatient to resolve this issue. I must think on this a while, decide the best course of action to bring her to us. Mention nothing of this to him. I want him unaware until we have her in our hands. Since he does not respond to his own torture, we'll see how he reacts when he hears her screams of agony!"

The jolt Steve felt in his heart at the thought of Kayla being dragged into the situation was far more painful than the electricity that had preceded it.

The door opened and then closed again as the mysterious hidden man departed.

A firm hand gripped his shoulder, interrupting his thoughts, and Carlson shook him roughly to rouse him. "Johnson?"

Maintaining the illusion of unconsciousness, Steve allowed his body to lean sideways toward the hand, and a moment later, Carlson patted his cheek briskly, an unpleasant slapping that was painful, but a necessary annoyance in maintaining his illusion. It was an oft-repeated ritual, for he had lost consciousness a number of times during the various methods of torture that they inflicted upon him over the years.

Steve jerked his head up, his eye seeking Carlton's face. A fair actor in his own right, he let his eye gradually focus in an effort to reinforce the impression that he was only just then regaining consciousness.

"You passed out," Carlton told him, trying to sound indifferent, but Steve heard the disapproval and revulsion in the man's voice over the plans his employer was making.

Steve lowered his head again, drawing several deep breaths in an effort to shake off the lingering effects of the electricity and the dreadfully frightening news that Kayla was to be kidnapped and tortured in his place. "That bastard is going to kill me with that damn thing one day," he said. "And all for nothing. I swear, I don't know what he wants." There was a great deal of emotion in his voice, wrought from his fear of witnessing Kayla being put through the same torment, but Carlton merely thought it was his frustration at the repeated torment.

Carlton was looking at him studiously, presumably attempting to gauge how much he might have heard, and he seemed satisfied that his demeanor was typical rather than unusual. He did not appear to be guilty of hiding information, including the name of the man who controlled the torture. "He doesn't believe you."

He looked up at Carlton again. "What about you? Don't you think I would have surrendered the information by now if I had it?"

Carlton was quiet for several moments, then looked away. "I don't know. Maybe you want to keep the goods for yourself, or sell them for profit. Or maybe you've already sold them."

"If I'd sold them, I'd have no reason not to say so, would I?"

Carlton shrugged. "Maybe you're afraid of what he'll do to you if he finds out. It must be worth a lot of money for him to go through all that trouble to get it. Not to mention the time involved."

"What the hell is 'it'?"

"No idea. He never shared that information with me."

"You know, man, there is nothing in that house that is worth all of this. I just want to go home to my family. You have a family, don't you?"

Carlton hesitated. Engaging in a personal conversation with the prisoner was forbidden, for it implied a friendship that could not occur. After a moment, he nodded, casting a surreptitious glance at the door, lest he be seen or overheard engaging in pleasantries.

"Can't you imagine what it must be like for me, being separated from them like this? Being away from them is the worst torture that friend of yours could inflict on me. Worse than any of this other stuff. Tell me what it is he wants, and I'll do my best to help him find it, but you gotta help me out here, man! I'm totally in the dark!"

Carlton sighed, refusing to acknowledge that he was affected by Johnson's impassioned pleas. Turning to the door, he called, "Harding, what's the holdup?"

Footsteps pounded down the stairs that Steve had never seen, and Harding, a shifty-eyed man with a tranquilizer rifle, stepped just inside the room, his stern attention focused entirely on the American prisoner, who was still seated in the chair, his arms still wrapped around the back of the chair. "He wants to see us when we're done here."

"All right."

"He looks a bit peaky," he remarked. "I take it our boss got a might over-exuberant with the switch."

Carlton shrugged. "He does that from time to time."

"Must be entertaining to watch."

"Not really," Carlton replied.

Harding laughed at the disgusted expression on Carlton's face. "Weak stomach?"

"I just do my job."

He withdrew a handcuff key from his pocket and stepped behind Steve to insert it into the device. An instant later, the cuffs clicked open and his hands were free, and although he shifted their position to his lap, where he could rub the feel of it from his wrists with his hands, he did not dare attempt to escape. He had tried that once before, and had been shot with a tranquilizer dart fired by Harding. Upon waking, punishment had been swift and brutal enough to discourage a repeat. No one ever came into the room without a partner carrying a tranquilizer gun.

Steve did not stand up until Carlton and Harding had left the room and he heard the door close behind them, its slam echoing hollowly down the corridor of the underground labyrinth in which he had been sequestered from the rest of the world.

Alone again, he rose on wobbly legs and placed one hand on the chair back to steady himself for a moment before proceeding to the cot, where he would rest and recover from the ordeal and wonder, as he always did, why he was being put through such brutal interrogations when he had no idea what it was they were after.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

It had been a long, rough day at the hospital, and Kayla heaved a weary sigh as she inserted the key in the lock of the upscale, three-bedroom condo she shared with her daughter, Stephanie. As she pushed the door open, she heard the small clock on the decorative mantle strike the half hour, a single musical chime that struggled to be heard above the modern music that blared from the stereo in the living room. A quick glance at her watch confirmed the time: seven thirty.

Both physically and mentally exhausted from the long, demanding day in the Emergency Room, she dreaded the idea of cooking supper when she had no appetite, but she knew that her daughter Stephanie would need to be fed. After spending the afternoon at the beach, she would be hungry. Perhaps a bowl of canned soup and a sandwich would suffice. But as she stepped through the door, the mouthwatering aroma of tomato sauce and garlic drifted into the small foyer from the kitchen and with it the sound of a girlish voice singing along with her favorite vocalist. Kayla could not suppress a smile, remembering her own youth of loud music and sing-alongs, and her mother, Caroline, insisting that she was going to ruin her hearing.

"Stephanie, I'm home," she called, elevating her voice above the music.

It was June, so school was out for the summer, but at 16, Stephanie insisted that was old enough to stay at home alone while her mother was at the hospital each day, with certain restrictions, of course.

"In the kitchen," Stephanie called back.

Kayla closed the door and locked the deadbolt against the rest of the world, then turned down the volume on the stereo as she passed on her way to the kitchen, where Stephanie was stirring the sauce in a saucepan. On an adjacent burner, a pot of water was just starting to boil in preparation for the package of spaghetti that waited on the countertop. The broiler was preheating for the generous portions of garlic bread that would accompany the meal.

"Hi, baby," she said. "What did I tell you about the volume on the stereo? Mrs. Blakely stopped me by the elevator again."

"Sorry, Mom."

"And I'm sorry I'm so late. I was about to leave over two hours ago when a couple of rival gangs got into a brawl, and we had more than two dozen teenagers in there at once, all of them with a variety of knife wounds, gunshot wounds, and blunt force trauma from clubs and chains. All of them were still trying to kill each other right there in the hospital!"

"Sounds awful! Was anyone in the staff hurt?"

"No, but it took ten police officers and most of our security guards to get everyone subdued. Even strapped on their gurneys, they were still yelling and making violent threats against each other and the doctors and nurses who were trying to help them. Anyway, I couldn't leave until things were under control." She drew a deep cleansing breath to help shake the remembrance of the disturbing event, then leaned over the saucepan to inhale the delicious aroma of spaghetti sauce. "Mmm, that smells good."

"Grandma's homemade spaghetti recipe," the girl proclaimed proudly, indicating the recipe card she had been following. "Since you were late, I thought you might be too tired to cook, and since I didn't really have anything to do, I thought I might as well take care of it."

"I really appreciate that," Kayla said, her appetite returning at the aroma of Caroline Brady's special recipe. "Grandma's spaghetti sounds a lot better than the canned soup I had planned to fix."

"That's for sure," Stephanie said with such vehemence that Kayla laughed.

"I guess we have been having soup a lot lately, haven't we? We'll have to see what we can do about that." She leaned against the counter with an exhausted sigh. "I need to see about getting some more of Mom's recipes. She's the best cook I've ever known, and she has hundreds of terrific recipes. She just has that special touch. And," she added with a smile, "if the smell of the spaghetti sauce is any indication, you've inherited her talent."

Stephanie gave a pleased smile.

"My feet are killing me. I'm going to get a quick shower and a change clothes and get these shoes off, then I'll be back to help you finish up."

"I can manage; so why don't you meet me out on the terrace when you're done. You can just kick back and let me take care of everything."

Kayla smiled inwardly, knowing that "taking care of everything" generally meant Mom got to take care of all the dishes and the pots and pans afterward. "Sounds good. I'll take you up on that."

"Don't take too long, though. This'll be ready in about fifteen minutes. Twenty at the outside."

Kayla left the kitchen and walked down the hallway to her bedroom, feeling drained and a bit discouraged by the consuming hatred and viciousness of the gang members. Some doctors thrived on the dizzyingly busy, unpredictable high-energy atmosphere of the emergency room, but although she understood the skill required by the doctors who spent their days evaluating trauma cases, she preferred the quieter, one-on-one encounters with patients who were more cooperative.

Inside her spacious bedroom, she pushed the door closed for privacy, then kicked off the confining shoes and peeled off her hospital uniform. Soiled with blood and grime from the combative gang members who were more interested in resuming their fight than they had been in getting treated for their injures, they were tossed into the hamper in favor of a pair of well-worn jeans and a sleeveless blouse that she put on after her brief but refreshing shower.

Clean and refreshed, she sat down at her dressing table and flipped on the illuminated mirror and raked a brush through her wet hair.

After returning the brush to its usual place, her eyes strayed to the tape player she kept there. She rarely listened to it any more, preferring the more modern CD media in the living room, but after a moment of quiet contemplation, she opened the drawer on the table and withdrew an old and well-worn tape, one she had not played in a long time. It was slipped into the unit, and she pressed the "play" button.

The soft strains of an old song emerged from the speakers: _There's a way to last another day, sang the vocalist. If your heart . . . comes out . . . tonight._

In those few lonely words and beloved melody, she was carried back to a different time, a different place, when she had thought her future would take a different path than the one fate had given. It was the song she and Steve had dubbed their own, and she had played it often in the months and years after his death, less frequently in recent years, but it was still a much loved, special reminder of what should have been.

Rising from the dressing table, she went to the jewelry case that she kept on her dresser. Beside it was a framed photograph taken of her and Steve at their wedding, the happiest day of her life, and she paused to caress the ruggedly handsome face with her finger tips before lifting the lid on the jewelry case. Nestled in a lower compartment were a pair of wedding rings, a man's and a woman's, bound together with a strip of white lace. The decision to remove her wedding ring had been a difficult one, but one that she had felt was necessary in order to move on with her life. Steve's ring had been removed by the hospital after the explosion, and she had chosen to keep it as a cherished memento of their short lives together. The lace binding was symbolic of the fact that, no matter what, she and Steve would always be bound together by their love and their child.

Her eyes shifted to a small box beside the rings, and she picked it up and withdrew the object it protected. The harmonica was as much a part of Steve Johnson as his eye patch, for she had rarely known him to be without it. Always, it was kept tucked into his pocket within easy reach.

"Oh, Steve," she said, softly, her fingers caressing the musical instrument that he had loved. "I miss you so much."

No amount of wishing would bring him back to her, so she returned the harmonica to its nest inside the box, then turned off the tape player and padded down the hallway in her bare feet toward the living room, pausing briefly at the kitchen door.

Stephanie was draining the water from the spaghetti and seemed to have dinner well under control, so she moved to the sliding glass door and unlocked the latch on the sliding glass door that opened onto the terrace.

The evening temperature was mild and relatively calm and clear as she stepped outside, leaving the door open behind her. The terrace was large, more like a patio than a balcony, and had been one of the features that had most appealed to her when she had purchased the condo. Open and spacious, there was more than enough room for the tall plant stands on each side of the door, both of which held a variety of flowers and plants. A chaise lounge and a bistro set provided places to relax and enjoy the view.

She moved directly to the small bistro set, on which she and Stephanie occasionally dined, and sat down facing the small park across the street, where Stephanie had played as a child under her mother's watchful eye, a park that boasted only one tired old cottonwood tree, and was surrounded by asphalt, concrete and steel. It was very different from the one she had played in as a child, a park that was full of lush vegetation, sandboxes, and vendors selling ice cream and sno-cones in the summer, and warm chestnuts and hot chocolate in the winter.

Beyond the park, reaching toward the clouds, were the distant skyscrapers of downtown Los Angeles, the constant haze of smog slightly blurring the sharpness of the view. It was the polar opposite of Salem, perhaps why she had selected this place to settle, yet she missed the rolling green hills of the Midwest with its ancient trees and clean, fresh air.

On the main traffic arteries, she could see the long line of vehicles from business and tourist traffic on the interstate leading into and out of L.A., and heard the sounds of car horns at nearby intersections as commuters continued to make their way home, hoping to wind down from the day's activities.

Through the open doorway, she heard her daughter's footsteps approaching, and she turned toward it, watching as the teenager stepped through it, balancing a large tray rather precariously with both hands. She started to rise, intending to assist, but Stephanie shook her head.

"Keep your seat. I've got it," she assured her.

Skeptically, Kayla settled back in her chair and watched as Stephanie successfully reached the bistro table and lowered the tray onto it.

"Whew! That was heavy!"

"You should have let me help you."

"I was afraid I'd drop it if it shifted even a little bit." She removed the two bowls of spaghetti with garlic bread and placed them on the table, then removed two large glasses of iced raspberry tea.

"It's from a bottle, I'm afraid," she apologized. "I didn't think about the tea until the spaghetti was almost done."

"That's okay. It'll be fine. My, this looks wonderful," Kayla exclaimed.

After placing the tray against the wall, she sat down and they began to eat their meal. Stephanie watched carefully for her mother's reaction. "Well?" she asked, hopefully.

"It's delicious," Kayla praised. "Tastes just like your grandma's."

"Really?" Stephanie beamed. "You're not just saying that?"

"I'm not just saying it. You did an excellent job. Mom would be proud of you." It occurred to her as she spoke the words that her mother, Caroline Brady, barely knew her granddaughter, an unfortunate reality of the miles that separated them. "Your papa might say you're a chip off the old block. He was a pretty good cook, himself."

Stephanie heard the artificial cheerfulness in her mother's voice and recognized the thoughtful expression she wore. "Are you okay, Mom? You seem kind of down."

Kayla hesitated, reluctant to burden her child with adult worries and concerns and the depression that seemed to press down on her like a physical weight. "I'm fine. I think I'm just more tired than anything else. I had forgotten how stressful it is to work in the E.R. There are so many emergencies coming in, mostly minor, but some are life-threatening. It is very fast-paced, and often as not there's barely enough time to sit down and rest!"

"Maybe you need to take some time off," Stephanie suggested. "A week away from there would probably do you a lot of good."

"I would like nothing better," Kayla admitted. "I'm not sure I could get it, though. The hospital is short-staffed. I do have tomorrow off, though, so that should help. So, what about you?" she changed the subject abruptly, curious to hear how her daughter had spent her day and eager to take her mind off the boating victim and his resemblance to Steve. "Tell me about your day. Did you have a nice afternoon at the beach with your friends?"

"We had a great time," she replied with youthful enthusiasm. "Roxie's mom drove us over in her van. We swam in the surf, laid on the beach, and watched boys –"

"Boys?" Kayla interrupted, teasingly, lifting her eyebrows with curiosity. "Any cute ones?"

Stephanie blushed. "Maybe a few. Some of them were surfing, and that was fun to watch. They were trying to show off, and ended up wiping out."

Kayla gave an indulgent smile, marveling at how fast her little girl had grown up. Stephanie continued her recap of her afternoon at the beach until they completed their meal, and then the teen ordered her mother to relax while she cleaned up the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher.

Left alone again, Kayla leaned back in the bistro chair and lifted her eyes from the city to the sky. The sun, glowing with a reddish tinge in the L.A. smog, was nestling against the western horizon. Soon, it would be twilight, but she knew the city lights would make it impossible to see the stars once darkness settled over the area.

Despondency settled over her again, and her mind drifted back to Salem, missing the clean air and the clear starry sky. There was no denying the fact that she was homesick, but she was conflicted about going back there. Would the weight of the memories crush her, or lift her up?

Stephanie's suggestion of a week away from work had been unexpected, but it had reminded her of the fact that she had not taken a full week of vacation in several years, when she had taken her daughter on a nice trip to Hawaii. Now, she considered the fact that a week's vacation would be plenty of time to visit family and friends.

She had been thinking of home quite a lot since her mother had called last week, inviting her and Stephanie to come home for a family gathering. Kimberly, her older sister, would be there, presumably with her two children, Andrew and Jeannie, as would brothers Roman and Bo and their families.

The invitation had caught her by surprise, but, maintaining the distance she had created between herself and Salem over the past fifteen years, she had initially declined, stating occupational reasons. The hospital was short-staffed and getting away would be difficult, but that had been little more than a convenient excuse that had sounded phony, even as she had said the words. Going back to Salem, seeing all those places, reliving all those memories, had been unthinkable at the time. Now, however, after her talk with Ruthie in the break room and feasting on her mother's recipe for spaghetti sauce, and listening to the song that had been so much a part of her romance with Steve, she was giving serious consideration to the idea of yielding to the pull of her heart, of going home to visit her family . . . and visit the grave of her late husband.

But even as she considered the idea of a visit, her heart clenched with dread. The tug on her heart was the both joyous and painful, for Salem held so many memories of him, both good and bad. Maybe now was the time to face them. Maybe it was the last thread of healing that she needed.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Kayla lay awake much of the night, thinking about her family back in Salem, and experiencing a pang of homesickness far greater than she had anticipated. She was uncertain if it was the spaghetti made from her mother's recipe or the talk about family with Ruthie in the breakroom, or perhaps a combination of the two, but she had spent the night thinking about the phone call from Caroline a few weeks earlier.

Her brothers, Roman and Bo, still lived in Salem, but her older sister Kim, like her, had moved away, seeking to leave behind the painful memories that had marred her life. But unlike her, Kim had reached out to her family, expressing a desire to come home for a visit, and their mother had reasoned that it would be the perfect time for Kayla to come back as well. Although she stayed in touch by telephone and email, she had never returned to Salem, preferring to pay their way to California to see her on the rare occasions that they were willing to leave the pub behind to take a short vacation. As such, it was now several years since they had physically seen her or Stephanie.

Ignoring the pangs of guilt, knowing that her parents and siblings were disappointed, Kayla had declined the invitation, stating the truthful fact that the hospital was short-staffed. Now that she had time to think about it, however, she was finding that the familial pull was stronger than she had thought. Salem was her home, the place her parents had settled after their marriage, where Pop had built a business, and where she and her siblings had been raised. It held so many memories, both good and bad.

Throughout the night, she had glanced repeatedly at the illuminated digital numbers on her alarm clock, frustrated that she was unable to sleep, and finally, at four o'clock, she tossed back the sheets and got up, then took a few minutes to dress and make her bed.

The hospital was still short-staffed and she had been working with little time off, especially during the school year, but now that summer was here and her daughter was out of school, perhaps now would be a good time to go home to visit her family. All she had to do was convince her boss, who would likely be less than thrilled that she was leaving at such a crucial time.

Her eyes drifted to the wedding photograph on the dresser, and she knew that it wasn't only her family that she needed to see. What she needed to see most was a lonely and neglected grave in St. Luke's Cemetery. Although she had kept it decorated with flowers delivered from a local Salem florist, she knew it was time to see it in person. She had avoided it too long.

Her decision made, she glanced at the illuminated numbers on the clock again. It was now 4:15, meaning that it was 6:15 Salem. Her parents were early risers, necessitated by their decision to serve breakfast in the Pub's restaurant, so they must have the doors unlocked at the designated 6:30 opening time. There was no doubt that they would be up and would soon be going downstairs to greet their earliest customers.

After a brief hesitation, still reluctant to call anyone so early in the morning, she picked up the phone and dialed the private phone number of her parents' residence above the Pub.

Caroline Brady answered after two rings with a cheerful but rushed, "Hello?"

"Hey, Mom, it's me."

"Kayla!" The delight in her mother's voice was evident. "It's wonderful to hear your voice!" There was a brief pause, and Kayla heard her speaking to someone in the room with her, presumably her father, Shawn. "Yes, it's her!" Then she spoke into the phone again. "Oh, I'm so glad you called. We've been missing you!"

"I've been missing you too, Mom. Say, I know you're getting ready to open up there, so I won't keep you long -"

"No, don't worry about that," Caroline interrupted, dismissing her concerns. "Kim's here, and she's already downstairs getting things ready to open up. You're up awful early, though. It must be just after four o'clock there."

Her eyes strayed to the decorative clock on the corner of her desk, reconfirming the hour. "Yeah, it is. I couldn't sleep. I've been thinking about that family gathering you've planned, and I've decided to reconsider. I think maybe it's time to come home for a visit."

Again, Caroline spoke to Shawn, unable to contain her delight. "She's coming home!"

In the background, she heard her father's lilting Irish accent, "Well, it's about time! How soon is she comin'?"

"How soon can you come?" Caroline relayed the message she had already heard.

"If I can get a flight, I'd like to come today."

"That's wonderful! How long can you stay?"

She paused briefly. She hadn't really thought of that, nor had she informed her boss of her plans. "I don't know for sure. I'm hoping I can get Dr. Payne to give me a week."

"You know, we have extra rooms here, so I hope you and Stephanie will consider staying with us. It's been a long time since we've seen you, and we don't want to waste a single moment of it."

There was a hint of a smile in Kayla's voice. "Well, with an offer like that, I wouldn't even consider staying anyplace else. Just don't go to any trouble, okay?"

"Having you home again could never be any trouble."

"Okay. I'm hoping to get a flight out of Los Angeles this morning. I'll send you an email with the details, and get you an arrival time."

"I'll look forward to itl. And Kayla," she added quickly before they disconnected the call. "You've really brightened our day by coming home. We've missed you so much."

"Thanks, Mom. I've missed you too."

Kayla pressed the "end" button on her cordless phone, but as she laid it down on the desk, she allowed her hand to linger on it, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, wondering suddenly if she had been hasty in making such a spur-of-the-moment decision without talking to her employer first. Her supervisor would almost certainly object to granting time off when her presence was needed. Guiltily, she wondered if perhaps she should think about it and make the decision later, when it was more convenient.

On the other hand, the hospital was always shorthanded, and the time would probably never be a good one for a vacation out of town, where she could not be reached if she was needed. Sometimes, though, it was necessary to look after one's own needs. She was well-known for her giving nature and had, on many occasions, stepped in to cover for others when the need arose, sometimes voluntarily, other times coerced. Although she did not believe in the phrase "turnabout is fair play", she did believe she had earned the right for her own special needs. And right then, she needed to go home.

Withdrawing her hand from the phone, she booted up her computer and searched for airline reservations. After some time, searching various airlines, she managed to piece together an itinerary that would get her and Stephanie home with only one stopover in Chicago before the final flight would arrive in Salem at about four o'clock central time.

With her plans made and the tickets confirmed, she sent the email to her mother, then glanced at the clock again. It was now 5:00, but they would need to be at the airport by 6:45 to get checked in. They still needed to pack their bags and prepare a quick breakfast.

Moving down the hall to the bedrooms, she tapped her knuckles on the door to her daughter's room and waited for an answer. When no response came, she knocked again, louder this time. "Stephanie? I need you to get up now," she called through the closed door. When there was again no answer, she turned the knob and opened the door.

The interior of Stephanie's room was dark, but in the dusky light that entered the room from the hallway through the open door she could make out the long blonde hair that fanned out over the pillow. Kayla knew that the 16 year old girl had expected to be allowed to sleep late, as she herself had hoped to do. She hated to disappoint her, but there was no avoiding it.

"Stephanie, I need you to wake up," she said in a firm tone.

Stephanie's head turned on her pillow to look at the illuminated numbers on the alarm clock on her bedside table, then groaned in dismay. "Mom, it's only five o'clock!" she complained in a normal whiny teenager's voice.

"I know, honey, but something's come up. I'll give you a few minutes to wake up, but then you need to get out of bed. I'm going to start breakfast, and we can talk at the table." She started to pull the door closed again, but Stephanie had not made a move to get up, so she added, "Don't go back to sleep, or I'll come in after you."

She closed the door, hoping she did not have to follow through with that threat. Like most teenagers she had ever known, her daughter maintained a rather messy room. It was a rite of passage, she supposed, a part of growing up, but in the low light it should have been declared a danger zone, where tripping was almost guaranteed.

With her daughter awake and hopefully preparing to get up, she went to the kitchen to start breakfast. She placed the last of the strips of bacon in a skillet, and while they fried, she cracked a couple of eggs and beat them in a bowl. When the bacon was done, she divided them on two plates.

Stephanie still had not made an appearance, and she was just about to go get her when she heard the door to her daughter's room open. Satisfied that the girl had obeyed, however reluctantly or resentfully, she poured the eggs into the skillet to scramble and pushed two slices of bread into the toaster.

Bleary eyed and with her blonde hair mussed, Stephanie walked into the kitchen, still wearing the thigh length over sized tee shirt that served as her nightwear. She looked sleepy and sullen at having been awakened earlier than she had hoped. Plopping down on one of the chairs at the breakfast table with a loud sigh, she demanded in a resentful voice, "So what's the big emergency?"

Kayla glanced up from the eggs. "Don't take that tone with me," she warned.

Stephanie sighed. Her mother would not allow to her to talk to her in the same way her friends spoke to their mothers. "Sorry, Mom. It's just that I was up late last night, and I was hoping I could sleep late this morning. It is summer."

"Maybe you shouldn't stay on the phone half the night," Kayla suggested. Like most teens, Stephanie spent too much time on the phone, but Kayla knew she had been no different at that age. "Well, you can sleep on the plane."

That woke her up. Her head swiveled toward her mother. "Plane?"

"We're flying to Salem, so you need to get dressed right after we eat and pack enough things to last at least a week. If we're there longer, we'll use Mom's washer."

Aware, now, that her mother was agitated, she asked, "Did something happen? Are Grandma and Grandpa okay?"

"Everyone's fine. I told a couple of weeks ago that my sister, Kim, was going to Salem for a visit and that Mom had invited us to join them."

"Yeah, but you said we weren't going. Something about being too busy at the hospital."

"I changed my mind."

Stephanie fell silent, thinking about that. Spending a week or more with grandparents and aunts and uncles she barely knew and rarely saw was not her idea of a fun summer holiday. She would much rather stay in California with her friends. "Mom, can't I stay here? Maria's mom wouldn't mind if I stayed with them until you get back."

Kayla glanced at her sharply. She considered herself a lenient mom, but Maria's mother made her look like a prison warden. "I'm sure she wouldn't, but that doesn't really matter. Honey, your grandparents hardly ever get to see you."

Stephanie sighed again, wondering why parents always laid a guilt trip on you when they wanted you to do something you'd rather not do. "I know. It's just that . . . " Her voice trailed, ending in another sigh.

"I know. You don't really know anyone there. I understand that, and it's my fault for not taking you back to visit." Her voice was sympathetic, but also demonstrated parental authority. "And stop sighing. You've made your point."

Stephanie knew it would do no good to argue. "So why did you change your mind?"

Kayla turned off the burner and divided the eggs between the two plates, then carried them to the table. One was placed in front of Stephanie, the other at her own place. She sat down. "I can't explain it, but I just think it's time to go back to see your father's grave."

Stephanie nodded, more of an acknowledgement than an agreement. Her mother had occasionally expressed an interest in going back to Salem one day, but the spur-of-the moment decision had caught her off guard. With an expression of typical teen skepticism, she said, "So we're flying all the way back there just to see a grave?"

"Not just 'a' grave, Stephanie. Your poppa's. And I also want to visit with my family. I haven't seen them in years. Mom and Pop aren't getting any younger. Like I said, I can't explain it, but I need to do this. And I need you with me. I think it would be nice if we could visit your father's grave together."

Stephanie was quiet for a long time, pushing her eggs around her plate with her fork. It was hard to work up an appetite that early in the morning. Her father's absence was a hole in her life that she had always lived with. Some of her friends had parents who were divorced, but their dads were alive and available if they were needed, even if it was just occasionally for some. She had no memory of what it was like to be cuddled in the strong arms of a loving father.

"I wish I could remember him," she said at last.

There was enough regret in Stephanie's voice that Kayla felt the burn of tears behind her eyes. "So do I," she agreed. "He loved you so much. He called you his 'little sweetness', and he'd sit with you in the rocking chair for hours, just rocking and talking to you and singing to you. He had a pretty good singing voice, and you loved to listen to him." She blinked back the tears and quickly averted her eyes, concentrating on the food on her plate that she no longer wanted.

Stephanie watched her mother's reaction with worried eyes. Kayla had told her all those stories before in an effort to bring reality to the pictures of him that were scattered about the condo, but she had never seen her that close to breaking down. "Mom, Dad died a long time ago. Shouldn't you be over him now?"

"It isn't that I'm not over him," Kayla said in a defensive tone. "It's just the right time to go back."

"Do you think . . ." She stopped, then tried again. "Mom, I know you really loved Dad, but I was just sort of thinking that you never go out, and -"

"I go out," Kayla interrupted, knowing where her daughter was going with this.

"Yeah, but not very often."

Kayla's voice became slightly animated. "I don't really have time to go out much. My work at the hospital doesn't leave much time for a social life."

"That's my point. Maybe you're working too hard. Maybe you need to get out and have fun. You need to start dating."

An irrational sense of impatience surged, but Kayla was careful to tamp it down. She did not want to hurt her daughter's feelings when she was merely expressing concern. "I do date," she replied, but the statement sounded defensive.

"Not very often, and you never go out with the same guy twice."

Kayla looked away, unable to deny the truth. With one date, it was easy to keep them at arm's length. A second date implied interest and they expected more than she was willing to give. She tried to sound cheerful as she replied, "How do you teenagers say it - We just didn't click."

Despite her resentment at being pulled out of bed so early, Stephanie could not help but smile at her mother's attempt at modern lingo, then abruptly sobered again. "I know what you're doing, Mom. You don't want to let anyone else get too close."

Kayla stood up to clear the table, dismissing the subject. "And I don't want to talk about this. Finish your breakfast and get dressed, then pack your suitcase. We have to leave for the airport within the hour."

Stephanie gave a defeated sigh, then finished her breakfast as she had been told.

Kayla put her dish in the dishwasher, thinking about her daughter's concerns. She was touched that Stephanie was worried about her, but even she was puzzled by her own reluctance to let anyone else get close to her. Many widows remarried and went on to have loving, stable relationships and happy lives with a new partner. Why didn't she want that? Why did it feel so wrong?

I'm married to my work, she realized. Pushing aside that thought, she said, "When you're finished, go pack."

While Stephanie finished her breakfast, Kayla went to her own bedroom and sorted through her closet to select the items she wanted to take with her and packed them in her navy blue suitcase.

A half hour later, she went back to the living room to place the phone call she had been delaying.

She knew her supervisor typically arrived at the hospital around 6:00, where he enjoyed bagels or sweet rolls and coffee for a quick breakfast at his desk and read the newspaper before beginning his rounds at 7:00. Therefore, she knew he would not appreciate being disturbed during his quiet time, but it could not be helped this time.

Steeling herself for the expected rebuff when he saw her name on his caller I.D., she placed the call to his direct line, and a few moments later, the stern voice of Doctor Gary Payne came on the line, mildly annoyed at being disturbed. "Kayla? Is everything all right? I know this is your day off. Are you ill?"

It was a question spoken out of concern for her well-being, and a guilty feeling surged inside her, regretting that she could not adequately explain her situation to her employer. She knew he would not understand, that he would think her needs trivial. Even worse, Shawn Brady had instilled his strong work ethic on all his children, but Kayla had felt it more keenly than had her siblings. She was the one who never missed a day of work unless she was too sick to crawl out of bed, who nearly always arrived early and left late, and now she must ask for a leave of absence when she had never done so before.

"No, I'm not ill," she replied. "Gary, I hate to ask, but I need a favor. I'm sorry to spring this on you with such short notice, but something has come up and I need to ask for a leave of absence. I need to fly back to Salem, my hometown."

"Nothing serious with your family, I hope," he said, sincerely.

"No, no, nothing like that," she replied quickly, her voice slightly animated. "It's personal in nature, but it's something I can't put off. I really need to take care of it right away."

There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the line, and Kayla could easily imagine him leaning back in his chair and tugging on the course hairs of his goatee, a habit in which he engaged whenever he was thinking or when he was puzzled. "Well, Kayla, you know this isn't really a good time. We have several staffers on vacation, and we're shorthanded to begin with."

"I know, and I'm really sorry about this. I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, but I can't put this off." There was an audible note of desperation in her voice that he did not fail to comprehend.

"I can hear in your voice that you're upset," he said, kindly. "Is it something I might be able to help you with?"

"No. I wish it was that simple, but it isn't. It's complicated."

"Just how long of a leave are we talking about?"

"That's hard to say. A week. Maybe more. I have a lot of unused vacation time stacked up, but it can be unpaid leave," she assured him. "Given the current medical climate here in L.A., I certainly wouldn't expect to be paid when I'm not there to do the work. It's just . . . I just really need to go home for a while."

She heard him sigh, a signal that he was giving in, albeit reluctantly. "All right, Kayla. You know you're one of my best and most dependable employees. I suppose we can find someone to fill in for you while you're away. I'll let personnel know that you won't be in for a week."

"Thank you, Gary. I really appreciate this."

A week, he had said. She was uncertain if a week would suffice, but it was a start. Once there, if necessary, she could call and request another.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"Mom, they just called our flight number," Stephanie said as she leaned over to retrieve the carry-on bag she had stowed under her seat while they waited in the concourse for their flight to Salem. She placed it on her lap, aware of the shuffling sounds made by other passengers in the crowded gate area as they gathered their belongings, and waited for the boarding by rows to commence.

They had taken seats in one of the areas near their departure gate, about to begin the first leg of their trip. The aircraft was parked at the jet way, glistening in the morning sunshine, and the baggage handlers were loading the luggage while the pilots went over their checklist in the cockpit.

It had been an agonizingly long wait, especially for Stephanie. Many of the security precautions that had been implemented following the terrorist attacks of 9/11/01 were still in place, necessitating extra time at check-in, followed by a longer idle time just sitting at the gate waiting to board. Stephanie, with a short attention span typical of most girls her age, had alternately watched the planes take off and land, browsed the nearby gift shops and book sellers, listened to music on the iPod she had tucked into her carryon bag, and watched as the luggage was sent up the moving ramp into the belly of the plane, trying unsuccessfully to locate her own bright red suitcase among the many different colored bags that were being loaded, simply because there was nothing else of interest to do.

At the announcement of their flight number, Kayla picked up her purse and her carryon bag and stood up, then together they made their way through the crowd of travelers to the gate, where a gate attendant was announcing the boarding procedures over a loud speaker.

Because their seats were in First Class, a luxury afforded by Kayla's salary as a medical doctor, they were permitted early boarding privileges along with other travelers in First Class and those in coach who required extra time. Stephanie had hoped they would wait a while longer before boarding, knowing they would be strapped in their seats for a long time, but as soon as first class boarding procedures were called, Kayla proceeded directly to the gate. With a soft sigh that was lost amid the hustle and bustle of the other travelers, she followed her mother to the gate and presented her boarding pass, then they proceeded through the stifling hot air of the jet way and entered the large DC-10 jet that would carry them to Chicago. The pungent, unpleasant smell of jet fuel permeated the air near the open hatch as they followed other first class passengers along the passageway.

Several smiling flight attendants stood inside the doorway to bid them welcome and assist passengers with finding their seats. After a quick glance at Kayla's ticket, they were directed to the left into the First Class seating area.

When they reached their seat numbers, Kayla stood back and allowed Stephanie to slip between the rows and sit down at the window, the seat she always occupied on the rare occasions that she and her mother had flown together. She had especially enjoyed the weeklong vacation they had spent in Hawaii three years earlier. She had been thirteen then, still young enough to enjoy playing in the sand with her mother, but old enough to also enjoy just lying on the beach watching the surf. They had also seen magnificent waterfalls, impressive volcanoes, and entertaining luaus. It had been a wonderful vacation, much of it caught by Kayla's camcorder to enjoy again and again.

Stephanie gave a wistful sigh. They had not taken a fun vacation like that in a long time, and this trip carried none of the eager anticipation they had experienced on that wonderful holiday. Stephanie knew she had lived in Salem as a baby, but after her mother had moved to Los Angeles, she had never returned to her hometown. Stephanie had no memory of ever being there, and Kayla had always avoided it, preferring to invite family members to visit her rather than going back to their hometown. She had even paid Grandma Jo's airfare to fly her from her home in Dallas to California for Christmas a few years ago as a special Christmas present. Grandma Jo had enjoyed the visit with Kayla and they had reminisced about Stephanie's father and showed her some pictures of him that she had not seen before, but visits with relatives were so rare that the teen barely knew any of them. For Kayla to suddenly insist, for no apparent reason, that they were going to Salem seemed unimaginable, something she still had trouble grasping.

She voiced none of this aloud, though, knowing it would upset her mother, and the only indication that she objected to the trip was the wistful sigh as she settled back in her seat and pulled her iPod out of the outer pocket of her carryon bag before stowing the luggage under the seat in front of her. The earbuds were plugged into the iPod, and she selected the music she wanted to hear, tuning out the rest of the world while she waited for the plane to depart.

Kayla withdrew a paperback novel from the side pocket of her carryon bag, then stowed the small piece of luggage in the overhead compartment, preferring to have as much legroom as possible. Fondly, she remembered how Steve had preferred the aisle seat so he could stretch his long legs whenever they became too cramped in the confining area. Back then, they had traveled in coach, where the seats were closer together. Now, she occupied the aisle seat herself so that Stephanie could enjoy the view from the window.

With the bag securely stowed, Kayla sat down beside her daughter and tucked the book and her clutch purse between her hip and the armrest, noticing that Stephanie was already listening to music as she gazed out the small window at the airplane that was parked at a neighboring jet way. It was obvious that Stephanie was not enjoying anything about the trip, and they had a long day ahead of them.

The teenager had not uttered a word of complaint since her initial objections at the breakfast table, but Kayla knew she would have preferred to stay at home with her friends than accompany her mother to visit relatives she barely knew. At her age, Kayla knew she would have felt the same way and tried not to let it bother her, but she knew much of Stephanie's attitude was her own fault. She had not been doing her part as a mother to take her back to Salem throughout her life to keep her acquainted with her relatives.

"Fasten your seatbelt, Sweetie," Kayla said as she pulled her own belt across her lap and fastened it.

Stephanie almost retorted that it would be nearly another half hour before the plane left the gate, for the coach passengers were being permitted to board by rows, a time consuming process, but the complaint died on her tongue when she glanced at her mother's pinched face. Kayla, she knew, was apprehensive about the long-delayed trip too, but for different reasons. She would be coming face to face with unpleasant things from her past, things Stephanie had never known. Laying the iPod on the tray table, she did as directed.

Kayla watched as Stephanie fastened her seat belt and then turned up the volume on the iPod and laid her head back against the backrest, bobbing slightly in rhythm to whatever song was playing at the moment. She had seen the brief flash of defiance in the girl's eyes, and attributed it to youthful rebellion, but she was relieved that the girl had complied. She was simply too tired to engage in a battle of wills at the moment.

Facing front again, Kayla watched through the open cockpit door as the crew went through their usual preparations. Other first class passengers made their way up and down the aisles, going to their seats or to the lavatory, while behind them in the open hatch, the flight attendants continued to greet passengers and direct them to their seats.

Opening her purse, she withdrew the handwritten itinerary that she had jotted down while reserving their flights, and reviewed it. After their one hour and thirty-minute flight, they would have a two-hour layover in Salt Lake City, followed by a three-hour flight to Chicago O'Hare. After another layover in Chicago, it would be a short commute to Salem.

"Miss, please put your tray table up for departure," a voice said beside her. She looked up into the face of a flight attendant, who was speaking to Stephanie. The girl apparently had not heard, for her eyes were closed, her body rocking to the music in her headphones.

Kayla nudged her arm to get her attention, and when she turned toward her and pulled one of the plugs from her ear, she said, "Tray table up, Stephanie."

"Oh, sorry," she replied and hastened to return the white tray table to its original position.

Satisfied, the flight attendant moved on, checking other passengers for departure violations. Another attendant closed the cockpit door, signaling that all passengers were on board, and she heard the hatch door in the coach entryway being closed as well. They were preparing to leave the gate.

Within moments, she felt the airplane backing away from the jet way, and the flight attendants went through their well-practiced recital regarding the plane's safety features and escape routes. Most people, Kayla noticed, totally ignored the instructions, Stephanie among them, having replaced the ear plug to listen to her music again. Kayla, even though she had heard it many times, paid attention out of politeness and an understanding that should there be problems down the road, many people would not know what to do.

Soon, they arrived at the runway, and took their place in the line of departing planes. And then, they were accelerating down the runway. Kayla looked past her daughter's head and even Stephanie paid attention as the plane lifted off, gazing out the window at huge expanse of the City of Angels.

After fifteen years away, Kayla Brady Johnson was on her way home.


	5. Chapter 5

The light was beginning to fade and the words on the pages were starting to blur. Wearily, Steve closed his book and placed it on the tiny bedside table, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, closing his eye to rest it for a moment. He knew he had reached an age where he needed reading glasses, for any time spent with a book was beginning to cause eye strain.

With a sigh, he opened his eye again and dropped his hand on the mattress of his cot. His prison was small and cramped, a tiny room where he slept on a small cot. The mattress was thin and lacking in comfort, the type that could easily be rolled up and stored when not in use. A small square night table, battered and scuffed, was positioned beside the bed and held an undersized lamp, the wattage too low to give off much light. A folding card table and a plastic chair was where he took his meals. Finally, a small bathroom was positioned in a corner adjacent to the bedroom. It contained only a toilet and a sink. There was no tub or shower, forcing him to bathe military style, with a sponge and cold water.

Reading was the only pastime he was provided to him, and then only because Carlton had taken some pity on him, bringing his own used books for the prisoner to read. Steve suspected the guards went through a lot of books in the course of their employment to keep guard over him.

It had occurred to Steve more than once, that he didn't even know the first names of any of his guards. The person who had orchestrated his abduction had probably insisted on that, for a first name basis suggested friendliness, and such informality could lead to sympathy, something the mastermind of the operation would not tolerate.

Hatred rose inside him at the thought of the people who had taken him from his family, and the hand that rested on the cot clenched in reaction to the emotion. He had no real knowledge of who had done this to him, although he had his suspicions. The bigger question was WHY, for the questions they asked made no sense.

Throwing his long legs over the edge of the cot, he stood up. Pausing to stretch his lean, nearly emaciated frame, Steve dragged his hand through his long straw colored hair in an attempt to finger-comb it, but it was much too long and tangled, so he gave up on his hair and adjusted his eye patch to a more comfortable position.

The yellowed grass growing against the small ventilation window had turned dark, indicating what he already knew; that outside, the sun was setting, the end of yet another long and dreary day.

They took care of his most basic physical needs. The fed and clothed him, gave him books to help pass the time, but they refused to grant him the only thing he truly craved – his freedom. The loneliness and boredom and especially the ache of longing for his family were almost unbearable. And that, of course, was the purpose. To make his life so intolerable that he would reveal to them whatever it was they wanted to know. The trouble was, he didn't know what they sought from him.

The opening of the small metal hatch installed beside the door announced the presence of a visitor, but Steve did not have to turn around to know who it was. It was Carlton, of course, most likely bringing his evening meal before he retired for the night, as he did each day.

Turning, he approached the hatch, then took the small tray that was passed through the opening. On it was a sandwich and a cheap plastic glass of water.

Holding the metal hatch open with one hand, Steve addressed his jailor. "Why am I being held here?" It was the same question he had asked countless times before, but which had never been answered to his satisfaction. "What possible interest could they have in me?"

Their eyes met through the rectangular-shaped opening, and Steve noticed, not for the first time, the trace of sympathy that lingered around the younger man's eyes. "You've asked that question enough times to know that I can't answer it."

"I know you won't answer, but I think you can," Steve retorted. "Who took me? Was it Alamain? I'm certain he's the one who blew up the boat, so it makes sense that he'd be the one to kidnap me. It's him, isn't it?"

Carlton nodded toward the tray that was held in Steve's other hand. "Let go of the hatch."

Fiery anger burned in his stomach. Steve wanted to reach through the opening to seize his jailor by the throat, to demand answers, but he knew the effort would be futile. Carlton would easily break the grasp and possibly Steve's arm as well, so he glared at him through the rectangular opening.

"Why?" Steve demanded. "So you can go home to your family? Don't you know I'd like to be able to go home too? I have a wife and a child!"

Carlton glanced away briefly, as he had done a number of times when Steve had referenced his family, but he also knew that Carlton would not help him. "You have your supper. Let go of the hatch."

Steve glanced at the sandwich on a paper plate on the tray. He could tell without opening it that it was peanut butter and jelly. He remembered a time when he had loved PB&J sandwiches, but that was before he'd had to eat them three or four times each week. How he longed for a thick juicy steak with a baked potato! But most of all, he wanted to see Kayla and Stephanie, to warn them of the danger that lurked.

"Is there anything you need, anything I can get you to make you more comfortable?" Carlton asked.

Steve's heavy sigh was audible in the quiet of the room. He knew would likely never get the answers he sought; he was wasting his breath by repeatedly asking. "Yeah, maybe you can get me a pair of reading glasses. My peeper is starting to get some serious eye strain whenever I try to read."

Carlton nodded. "All right. I'm sure that won't be a problem."

Steve did not thank him. He would not offer thanks to a man who was holding him prisoner, who refused to help him.

"Good night," Carlton offered.

Steve merely shrugged in response. Releasing the hatch, he carried the try to the card table and sat down.

Carlton watched for several moments, and Steve thought he heard the man sigh as he closed the hatch. Moments later, he heard the other man walking up the steps that presumably would take him to the main floor. From there, he would drive home, where he would have supper with his family, and enjoy his freedom, while Steve Johnson remained locked in a dank dark cell in the basement of a house somewhere in England.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please return your seats and tray tables to their upright and locked positions for our descent into Salem Municipal Airport."

The announcement made over the loudspeaker sounded metallic and muffled by the constant roar of the plane's engines, but those who heard it reacted immediately in a flurry of activity as they put away their books and magazines and began to collect their belongings. Those who had been to the lavatory or were visiting with other passengers made their way back to their seats, getting in the way of the flight attendant who was making her way along the aisle with a plastic bag, collecting the remaining drink containers and pretzel wrappers. One man left his seat to retrieve luggage from the overhead compartment, drawing an admonishment from the flight attendant. He ignored her, hoisted his bag out, and sat back down, sliding the luggage under the seat in front of him.

Lifting her eyes from the book she had purchased at the Los Angeles airport gift shop, Kayla looked past Stephanie through the window and saw that the plane was gradually descending. Immediately after the visual confirmation, her ears popped from the shift in altitude, and a sensation of butterflies began to flutter inside her stomach.

. Stephanie, tired and bored from the long day of airplanes and airports, pulled the earbuds from her ears and shut off her music device. Sitting up straighter, she looked out the window to view the ground below with curiosity, more eager than she wanted to admit to see her mother's hometown. "Hey, looks like we're nearly there."

"Wow, I can't believe how green it is down there!" Turning to her mother, she asked, "Have you ever seen so much green?"

"Oh, maybe once or twice," Kayla replied, drawing an amused smile from her daughter.

"Oh, yeah. You used to live here. Must be strange coming back after all this time."

"You don't know the half of it," Kayla admitted. Her throat constricted with unexpected emotions that filled her with sudden apprehension. Instantly, she was overwhelmed by second thoughts so strong that had it been within her power to do so, she would have turned the plane around and headed back to California.

Stephanie observed her for a moment, noticing the pale face and tight lips that were pressed together as if in physical distress. "Are you okay, Mom?" She glanced down at Kayla's hand, which was gripping the arm rest with knuckle-popping intensity. "You seem a bit stressed."

Kayla managed a weak smile. "Just a bit of a panic attack, I think. I guess it's just now hitting me how close I am to everything I left behind."

Stephanie held her mother's gaze for several moments, her teenaged mind understanding her mother's apprehensions. "It isn't easy for you, is it? Coming back here, I mean."

"No, it isn't, but I think it's time to face the past, so I can feel more comfortable about coming to visit Mom and Pop now and then. I haven't seen them in ages. So many years that can never be recovered."

"We'll get through it, Mom."

Kayla smiled, pleased that Stephanie had finally accepted the trip. "I know we will. And I know this isn't your idea of the perfect summer vacation, but I really do appreciate that you're here. I don't think I could get through it without you."

Leaning over, moved by her mother's words, Stephanie gave her a one-armed embrace, all she could manage while strapped in the confining seat.

The plane continued to descend, floating gracefully over the beautiful Midwestern landscape as it approached the airport. Assured that her mother was all right, Stephanie turned back to the window, drawn by the unfamiliar scenery with a curiosity.

As the buildings that marked the town of Salem came into view, Kayla leaned closer as well, seeking familiar objects and buildings. Everything looked different from the air, and places she knew from her youth were difficult to find among the other buildings, but she was able to locate several places that had been important in her life.

At the river's edge were the docks where Steve had sometimes worked and where he had spent much of his time. Docked at the nearby wharf, she could see many yachts and other sailing vessels owned by Salem's water-loving populace, a fact which intrigued Stephanie, who turned surprised eyes to her mother again.

"Those are sailing boats down there. Do they sail up and down the river?"

"Some do. Others sail up the river to the Lakes. Your uncle Bo and Aunt Hope sailed the Fancy Face to the lakes and then went through the channels into other rivers and canals until they finally reached the sea for their trip around the world."

"That is so cool. When you said they had sailed around the world, I thought they probably had bought their boat on the coast, like maybe New York or something, and then sailed from there. I had no idea you could actually get out to the ocean from here."

Kayla smiled, both surprised and pleased by her daughter's unexpected enthusiasm. "You would if you had paid more attention to your geography lessons. But yes, there are a lot of things that can be done here."

She leaned closer then, seeking the Riverfront Clinic, but was disappointed that she was unable to single it out among the other buildings that were clustered near the water's edge. The clinic had been a very important part of her life before her marriage to Steve, and it was there that he had saved her from a thug who had attacked her while seeking drugs. It was also one of the places she needed to visit.

Her eyes drifted across the expanse of the city beyond the river, settling briefly on the patches of green that were area parks and properties. Although it was not visible to her from the plane, St. Luke's Cemetery was down there, the place where Steve had been buried. The thought sent a rush of queasy apprehension to her stomach, for it was the one place she knew she must visit, and yet it was the destination she dreaded the most because of its total finality.

They heard the landing gear lower into position, and they fell silent as the plane continued to descend. The landmarks Kayla had been observing disappeared as the plane drifted below the skyline, and then they felt the wheels touch down on the landing strip.

Kayla drew a deep, shaky breath. After fifteen years away, she was home.

When the plane was parked at the jet way, the rest of the passengers began collecting their possessions, and a few stood up and stepped into the aisle, jockeying for position and waiting for the crew to open the hatch. That task took a while as the ground crew moved the jet way into position

When the hatch finally opened and the people in the aisle began to move, Kayla, her heart pounding loudly with nervous anticipation, stood up to claim her carryon bag, and she and Stephanie made their way toward the exit. They nodded a greeting to the flight crew, then stepped into the enclosed jet way. For several moments, they moved with the flow of passengers, and then they emerged into the open spaces of the familiar terminal.

Memories, good and bad, flowed through her mind, recalling other times when she had passed through this very terminal. Almost of their own accord, her eyes sought the hard chair on which Steve had sat years earlier, while they awaited their flight to Charleston. It had been a wonderful trip, spent exploring the places described in the second of Emily Matthews' civil war diaries. Today, however, the chair was as cold and empty as she had felt the day she had left Salem with baby Stephanie, never to return. Until now.

"Excuse me, please," said a voice behind her, and she realized that she had come to a complete stop, blocking the few remaining passengers.

Sidestepping, she murmured a hasty apology, and the man hurried past without acknowledging her further.

Now that she was no longer standing in the doorway, her eyes swept the crowd of bystanders, searching for familiar faces among the sea of strangers. The terminal was not very large, but it was packed with passengers and their friends and family.

Finally, near the rear of the crowd, she saw an arm raised in a vigorous wave, and below it was the bearded face of her younger brother, Bo. When he caught her eye, his broad smile reached her from across the room, melting away the years she had been away. No matter what happened, no matter how tired or upset she was, Bo would help her through it.

Despite her nervousness at returning home, a smile bloomed on her face as she waved back. They were all there, her whole family, and she eagerly weaved her way through the crowd of departing passengers and their loved ones. When she reached the Brady family, she was taken into the welcoming arms of the family she had left behind fifteen years ago.


	6. Chapter 6

After securing a rental car and getting settled in in her parent's home above the pub, Kayla left Stephanie to get reacquainted with Caroline and Shawn, and spent much of the warm and sunny afternoon driving aimlessly around Salem, viewing and listening to sights and sounds that were familiar to her, casually passing the time before she was to meet Marlena at the park.

This was her home town, a that was always comfortingly consistent during her youth. She had fished with her Pop off the pier, skinned her knees in the park, and attended classes in the local public school system. After graduation, she had left Salem several times, first to attend nursing school, and later to take a job in a doctor's office in Cincinnati. Both times, she had eventually come home. And here she was, home again, even if temporarily. It seemed she could not stay away forever. Very important parts of her life were anchored in Salem, and as she viewed the familiar sights and sounds, she wondered how she could have avoided it for so long.

But although the general appearance of the town was very much as she remembered it, the ambience was different now. Pop had always said that nothing ever stays the same. Not even Salem. It had grown and changed. It was now full of ghostly shadows of her former life, and without even realizing it, she was searching for those long buried old memories.

Without even making it a conscious thought, her tour took her to the pier where she had fished with her father and where Steve had spent many hours gazing out into the distance over the lapping water playing his harmonica, and past the Cheatin' Heart, where he had spent even more hours shooting pool with anyone willing to wager on the outcome. Both places, still active with visitors, all of them strangers now, had nevertheless felt lonely and empty to her, and she had not lingered at either of them. Retreating to her car again, she resumed her tour.

When she finally stopped the car again, she was in the parking lot of the restaurant and club known as Shenanigans. It was as if some invisible force had drawn her there, to the place where she had first met Steve.

Years earlier, before she had left for California, the proprietor was her old friend, Chris Kositchek, who continued to put in time at the restaurant even after passing the bar. They had dated at one time, even becoming engaged, before finally breaking up amicably. She had not heard whether or not Chris continued to run the establishment, or if he had turned it over to someone else.

After sitting in the vehicle for several more minutes observing the familiar establishment, she opened the car door and stepped out onto the asphalt. The front of the establishment looked basically the same as it had when she had frequented it. Often, before her marriage, she had stopped in for breakfast or lunch, sharing a chat with Chris, or meeting with friends. There had been birthday parties here and wedding receptions, and as always, the presence of her late husband was felt as strongly here as anywhere else.

Catching a movement out of the corner or her eye, she saw a young man open a car door for his girlfriend, and as she watched, they walked up the sidewalk together, leaning happily on one another as they talked and laughed, before opening the door and disappearing inside.

For a moment, Kayla was tempted to follow them into the building, expecting to see Chris's familiar face behind the counter. But she knew it was unlikely that he was still there. If he still resided in Salem, he was most likely spending most of his time in his law offices.

Turning her head slightly, an open alleyway caught her attention, an alley she had been down many, many times. She gazed at it for a long moment, half expecting to see a blond haired, one eyed man with a harmonica and a pool cue emerge from it, but of course, that did not happen. After a brief hesitation, she took a detour around the side of the building and into the maze of multi-level alleyways behind it, following the concrete path between the buildings and finally down to a lower level.

And there it was.

She pulled up short as her eyes fell upon the old doorway, feeling as though a very large hand had come out of nowhere to seize her heart in a crushing grasp as she stood and stared at the entrance of the basement apartment in which Steve had lived before their marriage. Memories, long buried, came crashing down on her with staggering intensity.

It still looked the same, the doorway standing at the top of a short concrete staircase with a simple iron railing, but there was a feeling of general abandonment that had more to do with Steve's absence than the passing years. Litter fluttered along the foundation, carried by a gust of wind, and with it she detected the smell of rotting garbage from the dumpsters around the corner. A stray cat carrying half of a discarded sandwich in its mouth came around the corner, froze briefly when it saw her, then scurried away to devour its meal elsewhere.

Her feet felt leaden as she made her way toward the concrete stairway, but she did not immediately climb them. Instead, she bent over to look in through the small window at ankle level, hoping to determine if the apartment was occupied, but she could see nothing through the filthy glass. In her mind's eye, she could remember how the blinking red lights on the illuminated sign next door had flashed repeatedly in the window, and she had often wondered how Steve had managed to sleep through it.

Placing her hand on the smooth iron railing, she slowly ascended the steps and came to a stop at the door. She faced it for several moments without moving, then hesitantly reached for the doorknob. Just as her fingers touched the knob, she changed her mind. Despite the abandoned appearance, it was possible that it was being rented to someone else, someone who would resent her casual intrusion into their home, so she raised her hand and knocked. As she listened for an answer, she could hear the echo of her knocking, and realized that the room was empty.

This time, she took the knob with more confidence and gave it a turn. She had expected it to be locked, but to her surprise, the knob turned, so she pushed it open, drew a deep calming breath, and stepped inside.

A rickety wooden staircase led down into the cavern like apartment, and she took them carefully, sliding her hand along the dusty railing. Steve had always kept the steps in good condition, but it was immediately clear that they had been severely neglected for some time. Her shoes tapped lightly as she made her way down, and she fondly remembered how Steve's boots had stomped loudly up and down them. There was nothing dainty about Steve Johnson.

At the bottom of the steps, she found herself in the main room. It was cool there with its concrete block walls, but so empty that her footsteps echoed slightly on the hard floor. The bed was gone, as were the bedside table, the dresser, and the card table that had served as an eating table. Trash littered the floor, left behind by whoever had been the last occupant.

_Hi, Sweetness_, the voice said inside her head, so real that her body flinched in response to it. In her mind's eye, she could see that handsome face smiling at her from across the room. His presence was strong there, almost disarming in its intensity. It was painful, yet comforting at the same time, to stand in the place that had been his home.

"Steve," she whispered, wishing desperately that the memory was real.

With a sigh, she moved toward the bathroom, the only other room in the apartment, and when she flipped on the light she discovered that the bulb had burned out. Enough light penetrated from the main room to reveal that it was as filthy as the rest of the apartment. Streaks of rust crept down the sink toward the drain, and there were mouse droppings in the tub.

Stepping out of the bathroom, she gave a startled gasp to find a man standing at the bottom of the steps, looking at her with twinkling eyes and a cheerful smile.

"Now you are just about the last person I expected to see down here," he said.

"Chris!" she exclaimed, embarrassed that she had been caught in the apartment without permission. "I - I know I shouldn't have walked in like this, but the door was unlocked. I wondered if you were still here."

"Off and on," Chris Kositchek replied. "I'm doing okay as an attorney, but my heart is still in this old place. I hired a manager to see to the day to day operations, but I try to stop by a couple of times a week if my case load permits. I was looking over the inventory list when one of my servers told me that a beautiful but suspicious-acting woman had slipped into the alley, so I thought I'd better check it out."

She lifted her eyebrows. "Suspicious?"

"We've had some vagrants trying to move in. One of them broke the lock on the door, and I haven't gotten around to replacing it yet. My people kind of keep an eye out for people coming back here. Hey, it's wonderful to see you again."

"I decided it was time for a visit."

"Past time, actually," he smiled.

"Yeah. I was going to come by to say hi, but . . ." Her eyes swept around the room. "I guess I'm just visiting some old ghosts first."

He gave an understanding nod, and his smile faded in sympathy. "He was one of my better tenants, if you want the truth. I never had to dun him for the rent, like a few others that I rented the place out to, and for a bachelor, he kept the place pretty tidy. Never really liked him personally, and I thought he wasn't good enough for you, but I guess I was wrong about that, wasn't I?"

"Yes," she answered, simply. "He was a lot more special than most people realized. I still miss him." In an effort to hide the tears that were glistening in her eyes, she glanced around the room. "Looks like the place as really gone downhill."

He had seen the tears she was fighting to hold back, and understood that the old ghosts she was visiting had left her upset. Her emotions made him uncomfortable, so he nudged some of the litter with the toe of his shoe. "We've had no less than eight tenants in here after he left. A few were college kids trying to save some money with the low rent, but most were . . . Shall we say, less than reputable. After the last one moved out - he traded this place for a cell at the county lockup - I stopped trying to find a tenant. It's been empty now for two years."

"Two years?" she repeated, surprised. "I thought the added income would make it worthwhile."

"Times have changed, and so have the types of people seeking rooms. I'm not sure it's worth the hassle these days. Too many people think the world owes them a free ride, got mad at me every time the rent came due. Every time someone moved out, I felt like I needed to fumigate the place."

"I thought they'd have been on their best behavior, knowing you were an attorney."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? Say, do you want to come upstairs for a cup of coffee? I'm buying."

"Sounds good."

He smiled again. "Good." Gesturing toward the rickety staircase, he added, "Ladies first."

With a last, longing look around the room, Kayla went up the stairs and waited for Chris while he closed the door behind them. Then he walked beside her to the front door of the restaurant.

Well-known throughout her life as the Brady with the cheerful attitude and bubbly veneer, Kayla exhibited none of her usual optimism as she walked back to her rental car. She felt tired and discouraged and depressed, and she knew without looking that Chris Kositchek was watching, most likely with a thoughtfully concerned frown.

She and Chris had enjoyed a cup of coffee, and he had insisted on bringing out an appetizer for her to sample, a new item on his menu, he explained. She had given her approval, as expected, and they had talked about old times for more than an hour. But inevitably, as he pointed out the upgrades and new decor he had installed in Shenanigans, her thoughts had returned to her late husband, recalling the times she had seen him there having breakfast, a napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt. Ordinarily, remembering that would have brought a smile to her face, but being there, his favorite table just across the room from her, affected in ways she could not have predicted. She had expected to feel a bit sad and nostalgic, but the weight of loss seemed to be seeping in, leaving her uncharacteristically dejected.

Chris had noticed her mood shift and had asked once if she was all right, his concern obvious. She had assured him that she was fine, but it was time to go, so he had walked with her to the door and watched as she crossed the lot to her rental car.

She paused to glance back at the restaurant as she opened the car door, and he waved and called, "Glad you're back!"

She waved back, then got into the driver's seat and started the engine, intending to return directly to the pub, then changed her mind. Instead of backing out of the parking space, she sat quietly for several moments, pondering her options. She needed time and space to reflect on her return to Salem and to sort out where she wanted to go from there, something she couldn't do with her mom and pop trying constantly to cheer her up. There was so much to see and do, but she only had a limited amount of time to do them. She needed to sort out her planned excursions and put some order into them.

After a short time, aware that Chris was still watching and knowing that he would come out to make inquiries soon, Kayla shifted the car in reverse and backed out of the parking space, then drove away from Shenanigans. Her destination this time was the pier, where she spent the next few hours walking quietly along the docks, listening to the hollow sound of her footfalls on the wooden planks and the soft lapping of water against the pilings.

This was where she had grown up and where she had often gone to seek solace and reflection, even before her marriage to Steve, but it was yet another place teaming with memories of her late husband. In her mind, she could hear the sound of his boots thumping with haphazard abandon as he walked in his typical cocky stride along the familiar boardwalks that interconnected at multiple levels. This was the area where he had lived and played, loved and worked, and together they had strolled along this walkway many times, telling each other about their day and watching the evening sunlight glistening on the rippling water. And there, she had sought solace and comfort after his death, for it was an area that held many memories of him and their time together.

It seemed perfectly natural that she would return to that place where Steve's presence was so strong, for it was the one place where time seemed to have stood still. It was exactly as she remembered it, and she moved to the edge of the wooden walkway, allowing her mind to immerse itself in the comfortable environment. The water was very placid that day, and below her feet, the gentle waves lapped soothingly against the thick pilings. There was only a slight breeze, and the only waves were those generated by the occasional recreation craft that sailed up and down the river.

A lone freshwater gull caught Kayla's eye, and she watched it glide gracefully above the water. It hovered briefly near a pleasure boat, presumably hoping for a handout, before soaring away on the breeze. She watched it until it vanished over the horizon.

She had seen gulls many times, both the freshwater gulls in Salem and the seagulls of the California coast, but rarely did she see a lone one. Typically, they traveled in noisy, raucous flocks, and they were accomplished thieves. She and Stephanie had laughed in reaction to witnessing a pair of mischievous gulls snatch a sandwich from the hand of an unsuspecting tourist at Malibu.

She wondered if this particular gull was alone by design or by circumstance, and she could not help but liken it to herself. She was alone both by choice and by circumstance, but the fact was that she truly was alone. She loved her daughter dearly, but Stephanie was neither a partner nor a lover. She was the result of the marital partnership that she had hoped would last into her senior years.

Back in Los Angeles, where she had her job to occupy her time, that loneliness had not bothered her that much, but here, where she could easily succumb to the weight of the memories, she felt more isolated and abandoned that she ever thought possible. Here, she thought about her friends and acquaintances at work who went home each night to their own husbands or lovers. Kayla went home to a frequently empty apartment, for Stephanie was old enough to enjoy her own interests and her own friends.

Over the years, she had never realized just how much her life was still tied to Steve. She had moved on with her life, her professional life in particular, but she never felt comfortable going out with other men. Steve was gone; there was no reason why she should feel as if it was morally wrong to spend time with other men. And yet that was how she felt. She could not explain it, and she knew it did not make any sense, but she could not get past those sensations of extreme discomfort each time she had gone to dinner with another man, as if her subconscious was warning that she should not be there.

Turning away from the direction the gull had taken, Kayla resumed her stroll along the dock. Here, the walkways, like the alleys around Shenanigans, were multi-level, with steps providing access to those levels. Kayla was on the lower level, closer to the water, and just ahead of her, in a sheltered area beneath that upper walk, was the spot where Steve had attempted to hide from her one night when Victor Kiriakis's men had roughed him up. Over his vehement objections, she had helped him back to his basement apartment and had administered first aid. It had been the first time she had seen him without the patch, and she remembered how frightened he had been over how she might react, and how vulnerable he had clearly felt.

Her eyes dropped automatically to the wooden walkway, half expecting to see the droplets of blood that had led her to him that dark night so long ago, but of course they had long since washed away. She saw them only in her mind's eye, generating a sensation of being transported back to that long ago night, when Steve was still alive, when she had tended to his injuries with more compassion than he had previously known. He had resisted her tender ministrations, but it was battle she had won, as she had won most subsequent battles of will over the course of their relationship.

That crushing sense of loss returned, threatening to break free in the form of tears that she was determined to hold in check, but footsteps on the upper walkway alerted her that someone was approaching, so she carefully forced her thoughts back to the present, and concentrated on controlling her emotions, hoping the person would pass without acknowledging her

Turning her back to the upper walkway, her eyes watching a pleasure boat as it glided past, she waited for the person to move on.

Instead, the footsteps halted abruptly as the person noticed her, and she sensed that she had been recognized, and that it was not just some random passer-by, but someone she knew. She tensed, waiting for the expected and, at that moment, unwelcome salutation.

"Kayla?" asked a familiar voice, a voice that was filled with a mixture of concern and relief.

It was Hope.

Kayla drew a deep, calming breath, and turned to face her, forcing a smile that felt as unnatural as it must have looked. "Hope, what are you doing here?"

"Looking for you!" Hope replied with a note of gentle reproach in her voice. "We've been calling you for hours, but you haven't been answering."

Mildly chagrinned that she had flown all the way to Salem to visit with her family and then had struck out on her own for the rest of the day, Kayla reached inside her purse and withdrew her cell phone. "I put my phone on mute." She looked at it a moment, then put it back without adjusting the setting. Apprehension surged that someone in her family might be ill or injured. "Why? Is something wrong?"

Kayla had been away for a long time, but her mannerisms were the same, and as Hope gazed down at her, she detected something in Kayla's posture that suggested sadness and depression. "No, but I get the feeling I should be asking you that same question. When you didn't go back to the pub this afternoon, your mom started calling around, asking if any of us had seen you."

"And knowing Mom, she sent out the posse to look for me." She squirmed, feeling a bit embarrassed. "I guess I should have left the phone on, but I just wanted some time to myself without being disturbed."

"We were getting worried." Hope looked at her a moment longer, then made her way down the stairs. "Have you been here all this time?"

Kayla shrugged. "Not just here. I've been driving around, and walking around. I didn't mean to worry everyone. I guess I just lost track of time."

Hope scrutinized her with a worried frown, detecting what her sister-in-law was not saying. "You're really down, aren't you? Is everything all right?"

"I'm fine," Kayla insisted a bit too quickly to be believed. "I've just been walking around town and visiting some old sites."

"And some old ghosts?" Hope guessed, perceptively.

Kayla looked at her with a feeling of warmth. Of all her relatives, Hope knew better than anyone what was in her heart, and it had been Hope who had given her the encouragement to pursue a relationship with the man everyone else had said was wrong for her. Hope understood the good man who had been hiding behind the smart mouth and the tough-guy attitude.

"Only one," Kayla admitted with a quiet sigh.

"I thought that might be the case. It's hard coming back to where it happened, isn't it?"

"In some ways, it is. I know it probably sounds strange since I've avoided Salem for so long, but now that I'm here, I find myself visiting all the places that were important to him."

"I think I can understand that. In your place, I'd probably do the same."

"Well, you always did understand better than anyone else, because you cared about him too."

"I care about you, too, Kayla. Maybe you're moving too fast, though. You've only back a few hours. You have plenty of time to visit the places he liked. You don't have to do it all in one day."

"You sound like Mom," Kayla said with a fond smile. "The problem is, Stephanie and I need to head back to L.A. by the end of the week."

Hope looked disappointed. "So soon?"

"I know, but I kind of left my boss in the lurch. This trip was totally spur of the moment, and he wasn't particularly happy about it. The hospital is short staffed, and my leaving when I did puts them in a bind. I can't even explain it myself, but I just felt like I needed to be here."

"Whatever the reason, I'm glad you came. "We've missed you so much!

We've missed you so much! I hate seeing you so depressed, though. Is there anything I can do?"

She grasped Hope's hand. "Just knowing that people who love me are here and care about me helps a lot."

"You know, we haven't really had a chance to talk since you've been back. How have you been? Is there anyone special in your life?"

"Yes. Stephanie."

"I didn't mean that, and you know it," Hope scolded, gently.

"I know," Kayla admitted with a guilty smile, then, with a slight toss of her hair, she turned her attention toward the river, watching the gentle waves in an evasive way. "I've gone out a few times, but I can't seem to find anyone I'm interested in. Stephanie would say, 'it just isn't there', you know what I mean?

Hope's smile was sad, remembering the loyal friend she had found in Steve Johnson. "I think I do. Steve is a hard act to follow."

At the mention of her late husband's name, Kayla turned back to glance at her before lowering her gaze to the wooden walkway. "Yeah, he is."

"I knew there was something special between you two long before you got together. I was all for it, even when Bo wasn't. I knew that under that hard exterior, Steve Johnson was a pretty good guy, and he fell for you pretty hard, long before he ever admitted it." She smiled. "I could see through his act, though. I saw the way he looked at you when he thought no one was watching. At that time, I don't think he ever dreamed that you could love him as much as you loved him."

Kayla felt her throat constrict, and this time she didn't try to conceal it. Hope, more than anyone else, would understand. "I've moved on with my life, you know? I have a career that I love, a wonderful daughter who means the world to me, but I still miss him, Hope. I didn't realize just how much until I came back here."

Hope made a sympathetic sound in her throat. "I know, Kayla. I miss him too. He was a great friend." Her phone rang, and she withdrew it from her purse. "It's Bo," she said. Opening the flip-phone, she answered, "Hi, Brady. I found her, and she's fine. Yeah, we're heading that way now." She hung up then. "I think we'd better get you back home before Caroline and Shawn come to get you!"

"Yeah, you're right."

"I'm parked just upstairs. I'll give you a lift back to your car."

Together, the two women walked back to the steps and up to the second level. Kayla paused briefly at the top, allowing her gaze to linger on the lower dock, then followed Hope to where they had parked their cars on the curb, walking toward the setting sun.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

"Steve, no!" Kayla called, frantically. "Don't go!"

Caught in the vestiges of a nightmare so real and so frightening that it seemed she could not escape from it, Kayla sat bolt upright in her bed, her hand reaching into the darkness for the man she had loved.

As the dream faded away and her return to wakefulness pushed back the haziness of sleep, one devastating reality lingered: Steve, the love of her life, remained out of reach, gone forever.

As the seconds passed, the after-effects lingered, and she continued to sit there in her bed, her hand outstretched, gasping for breath, and that was how Caroline found her seconds later. Alarmed by the frantic cry from her daughter's bedroom, she had grabbed her robe and rushed across the hall. Pushing open the door, she flipped on the light switch, flooding the room with blinding light from the overhead fixture.

In the brightness of reality, Kayla's hand dropped to the bed, limp with depression, and her eyes came into focus as she and her mother regarded at one another for several moments before Kayla succumbed to the overwhelming emotions brought about by the dream. Bringing her hands up to her face, she fought to keep from weeping.

Shocked by her daughter's rare plunge into despair, Caroline hurried to her side and sat down on the edge of the bed. Drawing her into her arms, she said soothingly, "Kayla, it's all right. You're safe."

"It seemed so real!" Kayla told her. "He was so close, I was sure I could reach out and touch him, but when I tried, he was gone, and I couldn't find him. And his voice – I swear, I could hear his voice, as plain as I can hear you, speaking to me."

Caroline did not need to ask of whom she was referring, for she had heard the name her daughter had called out, but she chose not to address that at the moment. For now, comforting her clearly distraught daughter was the most important priority. "It's all right, Kayla. It was just a dream."

Distressed about the intensity of the dream, Kayla allowed her mother to comfort her, much the way she had done when she had been a small child in the aftermath of a tarrying nightmare, but this dream was different than childhood monsters in the shadows. For a few moments, it felt as if Steve had been with her again, so near that she could feel his presence, and hear his cocky voice and manner of speaking. The years had melted away until now, in the present, she experienced the overwhelming sense of loss as fresh and raw as if it had just happened, and in reaction to it, she felt the bite of tears stinging behind her eyes.

Caroline waited patiently as her daughter gradually brought her emotions under control again, but worry was evident on her face. "Are you all right?"

Kayla withdrew from her mother's arms, feeling embarrassed about her reaction to the dream. "I'm fine," she said, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It was barely after one o'clock. She had only been in bed two hours. "I'm sorry I woke you." She managed a laugh that never quite made it to her eyes. "I feel a bit foolish."

Caroline took Kayla's hand in hers and patted it, affectionately. "Nothing that upsets you this much is foolish. Now, let's go to the kitchen. I'll make you a cup of hot chocolate, and we'll talk for a while."

Kayla knew that the hot chocolate and the talk was a way of drawing her into a conversation about the dream, and perhaps more. "That's what you used to do when I was a girl."

"You'll always be my girl," Caroline reminded her. "Just as Stephanie will always be your girl. That doesn't change just because you've grownup. And the hot chocolate always seemed to work, didn't it?"

"Yes, but I think it had more to do with sitting up with you than it did with the hot chocolate. And you know how much I love your hot chocolate."

Caroline found Kayla's robe, and held it open for her while Kayla got up and slipped into it, then they went to the open bedroom door, where Shawn stood just outside in the hallway wearing striped pajama bottoms, a plain summer robe, and a concerned expression. His white hair stood on end.

"Are you all right, darlin'?" he asked with his lilting Irish accent.

"She'll be fine," Caroline told him. "It was just a bad dream. You go on back to bed. I'm going to take her to the kitchen and fix some hot chocolate, and we'll talk for a bit."

"All right," he replied, understanding that this was a mother-daughter moment. He cupped his hand under her chin, affectionately. "But if you need me, you know where I'm at."

"Thanks, Pop," Kayla said as she passed, and she gave his hand a reassuring pat before it was withdrawn.

The door to the room shared by Stephanie and her cousin, Jeannie, Kim's daughter, was cracked open, and Kayla met Stephanie's gaze through the narrow gap. Jeannie was bent over looking out from below, a sight that would have amused Kayla had she not been so upset.

"I'm all right, girls. Go on back to bed."

The door closed again, and Kayla knew the two girls would probably be discussing the event well into the night, but she did not dwell on it. Staying up late was one of those things she could not control at this stage in her daughter's life. Even at home, if she told her to go to bed, she knew the girl was likely to stay up playing on her computer, chatting with friends on her cell phone, or reading a book. There had been no computers or cell phones when Kayla was their age, but she knew she had stayed up as well.

With her mother at her side, she was escorted down the hallway and into the small family kitchen, where Caroline seated her comfortable at the breakfast table, then rummaged around for the sauce pan. It was placed on the stove, then she reached into the cupboard for the powdered cocoa, and lifted the lid on the sugar canister.

Kayla watched as her mother mixed the ingredients together and set the pan on the burner to heat, thinking how different they were as mothers. As a busy doctor, who spent a great deal of time commuting to and from the hospital through heavy Los Angeles traffic, Kayla and Stephanie often ate prepackaged meals and canned soup. Arriving home late just did not make it easy to spend time in the kitchen making meals. Caroline Brady, on the other hand, had never prepared anything that came in a package. It was one of the reasons why her food was so greatly appreciated by her family and customers

Feeling a bit embarrassed by her outburst, Kayla said, "I can't believe I didn't wake Kimmie up along with everyone else."

"Since we closed the Pub for the evening, she decided to go out for a nightcap with Bo and Hope," Caroline replied, stirring the contents of the saucepan. "They wanted to invite you, but you had already gone to bed, and we figured you needed the rest after your trip." She did not add that they had also been discussing the unusual melancholy that Kayla had tried to hide from them. She had always been the eternal well of optimism, but it seemed now that the well was running dry. It was an anomaly that had them all concerned, but they had all agreed not to ambush her about it. Caroline, it was decided, would ease her into a discussion.

"That's okay," Kayla said. "I am tired, and I'm not really in a festive mood anyway."

"Well, I can understand that. Air travel can be exhausting."

"It can, but it was more than that. I feel like I need to apologize for flying all the way home and then abandoning you so I could go driving around Salem. I should have called to let you know where I was." She paused briefly, but Caroline, to her credit, did not press her about where she had been. "I stopped by Shenanigans and had a cup of coffee with Chris. I stayed longer than I intended."

Caroline glanced at her, and Kayla did not fail to notice the hopeful expression. "I always liked him. Maybe you should invite him over for dinner while you're here."

Kayla gave her mother a mildly reproachful look. "Mom, that ship sailed a long time ago. Chris and I are just friends."

"Then invite him over as a friend."

"We'll see," Kayla said, evasively, then changed the subject. "Kim looks great, doesn't she?"

"Yes, she does. Her divorce from Phillip seems to have affected her more than she wants to admit, but some of it is in a good way. I've never seen her so independent, so confident and self-reliant. It's like she put all those bad things in her past behind her, and has grown stronger for it."

She turned off the burner and poured the rich chocolaty liquid into a couple of mugs and carried them to the table where Kayla waited, and she sat down beside her, turning her chair slightly toward her so that she could face her while they talked. Kayla could see the troubled look in her eyes as she observed her.

"Kayla, you called out Steve's name just now. You were obviously dreaming about him. And this afternoon, you hadn't been home more than an hour when you disappeared for the longest time. You said you went to visit with Chris, but I know there's more to it than that. Do you want to talk about it?"

Kayla looked away, embarrassed and unsettled by the dream and her extreme reaction to it. "Your perception always amazes me. The truth is, it's Steve," she replied. "He's part of why I decided to come. A big part of it, actually. It's hard to explain why it's important after all this time, but I need to see his grave. And I need to see his hangouts. When I stopped by Shenanigan's, it wasn't to visit with Chris. It was to see Steve's old apartment. Chris just found out I was there, and came down to invite me inside for coffee." Glancing into her mother's face again, she saw the concern there. "Now don't look so worried. It's just something I feel like I need to do."

"Being in his apartment," Caroline said, carefully. "That had to be a bit surreal. Do you think may have triggered your dream?"

"I don't know. Maybe. I've dreamed about him from time to time over the years, but they were all pretty benign compared to this one." Her body shuddered, remembering how the dream had made her feel. "When I woke up, I felt that awful hopeless emptiness that I felt the day he died."

"Well," Caroline said carefully. "I'm no psychologist, but this is where it all happened. Maybe it's where you have to confront all those unanswered questions."

"Yeah, maybe."

The two women fell silent for several moments, sipping their hot chocolate, but it was not the usual comfortable silence that usually existed between the mother and daughter. Caroline was clearly dissatisfied with the explanation that Kayla had provided, but as she considered her daughter's need to revisit the places that were important to Steve, she decided not to pursue further discussion at the moment. Somehow, in the dark of night, things seemed different. She would broach the subject again later.

"I hate that I woke up the whole household," Kayla said, regretfully. "Even the girls were staring at me through the door."

"Don't you fret about that. We're just glad you're here, and you know we'll all help you through all of this. We understand that you probably have unresolved issues about Steve."

Kayla shook her head, somberly. "I know you want to help, and I really appreciate it, but I don't think anyone who hasn't lost someone the way I lost Steve could ever understand." She looked up quickly then, concerned that she might have hurt her mother's feelings. "I don't mean to imply that you and Pop aren't caring or understanding. It's just . . . He was taken from me in such a cruel, violent manner." She paused to steady the sudden quaver in her voice. "I miss him so much, Mom."

"I know," Caroline said, softly.

"I know you and Pop had reservations about him at first."

"That's an understatement!" Caroline said, remembering those early days when Steve Johnson had first come into their lives. "I was scared to death of him at first. He looked so dangerous. Not just because of the eyepatch, but everything about him seemed to suggest that he was a man to be avoided. And you were drawn to him like a magnet."

Kayla gave her a genuine smile for the first time since they had awakened that night. "I was," she admitted. The first time I ever saw him was at Shenanigans. I can't remember why I was there, but I turned around and there he was. He was so full of himself, and I thought he looked a little frightening, but I couldn't deny that I was attracted to him. I tried to ignore that at first, but it was like something just clicked between us, and we both felt it."

"We lost many nights of sleep worrying about you. I'm happy to say we were completely wrong about him. We grew to love him when we realized how much he loved you."

Kayla stared into her mug of hot chocolate. "I don't think I'll ever feel that way again about anyone."

"You can have that kind of love again," Caroline insisted, gently. "Many widows have gone on to have long and happy marriages with someone else."

Kayla heard the implication in her mother's words that she would be happier if she could find someone to love, someone to share her life with, and smiled again. "You sound like Stephanie. She thinks I don't get out enough."

"Well maybe she's right. There are lots of available men out there. Maybe even some at that hospital you work for. You must have met some nice men in your profession."

Kayla became a bit uncomfortable at that notion. "I don't really like to date co-workers. I have once or twice, but it can get very awkward on a professional level if things don't work out."

"There are other men, men you don't work with," Caroline suggested.

"I know, and I have dated some, but it's harder now to meet someone," she said, but her voice sounded defensive, like dating was a duty rather than a pleasure. "The problem is, I'm at an age now where they all come with some sort of baggage. Like vindictive ex-wives and hostile children. And I suppose I have some baggage myself to work through."

"What kind of baggage could you have?" Caroline scoffed. "You have a beautiful daughter who understands that she'll be leaving home in a few years, and she's worried that her mom will be left all by herself. A lot of girls don't even want their mothers to date."

Kayla nodded in agreement. "She's a terrific kid, but she doesn't need to worry about me. I have my work to keep me busy. I don't really need a man to keep me company."

"It might be nice, though, to have someone to come home to. Someone to talk to. Someone your own age to share things with."

"Yeah, that is one of the things I miss," Kayla admitted. "But I just don't feel that way about any of the guys I've been out with. I mean, it wouldn't be fair to lead them on when I'm not really interested. I don't really have time for a relationship anyway. I'm busy at the hospital."

"We just want you to be happy, Kayla. And right now, you just don't seem very happy."

Kayla was quiet for a long moment, then gave a despondent sigh. "You want the truth?"

"Yes."

"The truth is, there is no one out there who even remotely measures up to the way I feel about Steve. He was one of a kind, and I was lucky enough to have him, even if it was just a little while."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

"Tell me a little about this dream of yours," Marlena said as they strolled through the grass in the park after leaving the small sandwich shop across the street, where they had enjoyed lunch by catching up on each other's lives. It was a beautiful day at the park, and many Salem residents were outside enjoying the pleasant weather. The two women walked slowly among the shade trees and the sunny flowers, while all around them children played in the sandbox, teenagers played ball in the open areas, and a pair of young lovers occupied one of the benches, concentrating only on their own conversation and the bag of French fries they were sharing.

"I'm embarrassed that I even mentioned it," Kayla said. "It seems so foolish in the light of day."

"Anything that upsets you isn't foolish. Caroline said you called out Steve's name."

Kayla glanced at her sharply, surprised that her mother had told Marlena about the dream. Turning away, she said, "She shouldn't have told you about that."

"Don't be too hard on her. She's just concerned."

Kayla sighed, resigned to the conversation. "I know. I woke up the whole house, but that didn't happen until the end of the dream. In the beginning, I was running through the dark toward a light in the distance, but I was never able to reach it. In fact, I never seemed to be gaining on it at all; it was always the same distance away, no matter how far I ran. All around me, I heard voices whispering in the dark, and even though I couldn't see their faces, I knew they were malevolent, that they were conspiring to keep me from reaching my destination."

"Your destination being the light."

"Yes. But more than that, I was searching for something, but I never knew what it was. And then, when I was so overcome with despair that I think I couldn't go any farther, I heard Steve's voice speaking to me."

"What did he say?"

"He said 'I'm here, Sweetness. I'm waiting for you.' At this point, the whispering stopped, as if they were listening to him."

"Could you see him?"

"No, but I knew he was nearby, almost right beside me, and I started reaching into the darkness, looking for him. I knew with absolute certainty that he was there, just out of reach. And just when I was sure that our hands were about to touch, I woke up, alone and terrified." She folded her arms across herself, as if suddenly chilled. "That's when I called out for him. I didn't want him to leave me again."

Kayla glanced at Marlena, who had listened attentively to her story, and who was watching her reaction. "It still disturbs you," she observed.

"In the daylight, it seems silly to be so upset by it," Kayla said, embarrassed. "It sounds even sillier when I talk about it." She shrugged. "It was just a nightmare. Everyone has nightmares, sometimes. I'm not sure why I'm trying to tack a particular significance onto this one."

"Dreams always seem different at night, but if they frighten you or upset you, then they have a specific meaning for you, and they aren't silly at all. Tell me about the voices. You said you can't see who is speaking, but do you recognize any of the voices as someone you know, someone you've met?"

"No. I can't even determine what they're saying. They're just disembodied whispers. Sound without substance." Her eyes settled on the young couple on the bench, remembering a long ago snowy day when she and Steve had shared a bag of warm chestnuts on that very bench. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet with the dreams and the familiarity of his voice, it could have been just yesterday.

"Kayla?"

She blinked herself back to the present. Marlena had been trying to gain her attention. "Sorry, I drifted away for a while."

Marlena appeared concerned. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah." She put on a cheerful face. "Look, I didn't mean to turn our lunch into a psychology session."

"I have some time," Marlena assured her. "The dream has obviously left you in a bad place. It might help to talk about how it makes you feel."

"This is going to sound crazy, given how much time has passed, but the dream was so vivid, so real, that I woke up totally devastated, like his death had just happened." She sighed, her eyes shifting toward a pair of young mothers who visited while their toddlers played in the sand box. "Even now, I still have that sensation of loss that I can't seem to shake."

"Dreams have an odd way of immersing you completely into its environment, so it's no surprise that you woke up feeling like it had just happened. And given your love for him, it also is not surprising that your depression would linger."

"But?" Kayla asked, sensing that there was more.

"Did you get any grief counseling after Steve died? Any professional help in dealing with the way you lost him?"

"No. I'm sure I thought about it, but it was so difficult to talk about then. I felt so lost. So empty. Like there was this big hollow void in my chest."

"And now?" Marlena prompted when her sister in law fell silent.

"Well, it's been years, you know? I thought I had gotten past all of this, moved on with my life. And I have, really. Even being back here wasn't as bad as I was afraid it would be, until last night. It's just the dream seems to have brought it all back to the point where I feel like I'm dealing with it all over again."

Marlena nudged her playfully with her shoulder. "You're afraid you'll be perceived as weak, now that you're a doctor?"

Kayla could not help but smile at Marlena's good natured needling. "No, it isn't that." She paused, her eyes sweeping the park and the city's skyline over the treetops. "It's being back here. Everywhere I look, I see Steve. Not literally, of course," she added quickly to avoid being misinterpreted. "Memories. I mean they're good memories, but . . . They're so painful, sometimes. Like ghosts waiting around every corner, blindsiding me." She paused again, then continued, "That isn't exactly the truth. The truth is, I've been seeking them out. I went to Shenanigans yesterday and went around back to that old basement apartment where he used to live. It's empty now, but I swear I could still feel his presence there. It was so strong that I half expected to see him come swaggering through the door."

Marlena smiled, fondly. "I didn't know him very well, but I do remember that swagger of his. He was so cocky, so self-assured. Wanted everyone to think he was a lot tougher than he really was."

"Looks like you saw through the act, too. Even here, in this park, I'm almost overwhelmed by the memories. We had a picnic in an open area behind that clump of shrubs, and we shared a bag of chestnuts on that bench over there on a cold and snowy day. Everywhere I go, he's there."

Kayla stopped walking, and when Marlena stopped, beside her, the psychiatrist could see the worry in her large blue eyes.

"What's wrong with me, Marlena?" she asked, her voice calm but very serious. "I knew that coming back here would stir up the memories, but why am I feeling this way again? Why does it feel like it just happened days ago instead of years ago?"

"Everyone reacts differently to certain situations, but there is no reason to think there is something wrong with you."

"But I've been fine!" Kayla insisted, frustrated. "I've moved on with my life, raising Stephanie, starting a new career."

"I know you have," Marlena agreed, soothingly. "Obviously, being back here is forcing you to confront some unresolved issues. Your husband was taken from you under horrible circumstances. It's to be expected that it would have a lasting effect on you. I didn't talk much about it with Roman, but if I remember correctly, Steve's murder is still technically unsolved, isn't it?"

"Well, no one was ever tried and convicted, but we're pretty sure it was Lawrence Alamain." She paused, her thoughts drifting back to those difficult times, then recapped the event for the psychiatrist. "We're just not sure why. Steve was investigating a suspicious boat in the harbor when it exploded. He nearly died, but then he started to rally. He regained consciousness, talked to us, and seemed like he was improving. He was doing so well at that point that we thought he was going to make it, but then he suddenly took a turn for the worst."

"What happened?"

"It started with arrhythmias on his heart monitor, and he seemed to growing short of breath. It was obvious that he was in distress, but . . ." Tears welled in her eyes. "He knew he was dying, and accepted it. It happened so fast. They were unable to revive him." She looked away, remembering how she had lain on the bed with him afterward, refusing to leave his side until his friend, Marcus Hunter, had gently coaxed her into letting them take his body away.

"Was an autopsy done?"

"No. His mother, Jo, and I talked about it briefly, but we decided that we didn't want to put him through that. Knowing that he might have developed an embolism or some other anomaly would not have changed anything. It would not have brought him back."

"I understand," Marlena said, gently. "I probably would have felt the same way if it had been Roman. Well, your dream, I think, is fairly easy to interpret. The darkness most likely represents the lack of closure -"

"Closure," Kayla repeated. "That's a word that gets tossed out there fairly casually these days. Everyone talks about 'closure', but does it really make a difference in the outcome?"

"Sometimes it does," Marlena told her. "But in this case I think it's relevant to the dreams. His killer was never brought to justice -"

"A lot of people have lost loved ones and never found justice or closure," Kayla pointed out.

"Everyone is different, and I'm not saying that it's the sole cause of the dreams."

"What about the light? Why can't I ever reach it? Does it represent Heaven or something, because I know that must be where Steve is. A soul like his just can't cease to exist."

"Its human nature to hope there is a comforting place beyond death, and who knows? Maybe there is. As for the light, in your dream I don't think it symbolizes Heaven. I believe it represents unattainable truth and justice. Your subconscious is seeking that, even if you don't realize it. For you and Steve's family, it's always been unreachable."

Kayla was silent for several moments, thinking about that. "That makes sense," she said at last. "But what can I do to attain truth and justice? At this point, I don't think its achievable. Alamain will never be brought to justice."

"Maybe not. But you're here; you're visiting the sites that were important to the two of you. Maybe that's what you need."

"Face them, you mean?"

"Maybe. Your time together was brief, but I'd have to say it was also pretty special."

"It was. Thank you, Marlena. Mom doesn't think I should seek out Steve's favorite places, but I'm drawn to them in ways I can't explain."

"Follow your heart, Kayla. I know that sounds corny, but there is a reason you need to see those places. Science is still conflicted on exactly why we dream, but many believe it's the mind dealing with emotions. Some dreams may not have any meaning at all, but others can be like riddles waiting to be solved. If that is the case with yours, maybe they'll help you heal."

* * *

Steve paced restlessly around the small basement room that served as his prison cell, a place where time had little meaning. The illumination at the small grated ventilation window near the ceiling indicated that it was daytime, but he could not see the position of the sun and so could not estimate the hour.

They had not come to question him since the last interrogation, and he grimly realized that his own physical torture was over. They would wait until they had managed to kidnap Kayla, and then his torture would be hers.

His heart constricted with the agony of her being placed in danger. What good was it for him to know of her impending kidnapping if he was unable to do something to prevent it?

His eyes were drawn to the window, desperate to help her, even though he knew it was futile. Even in his emaciated state, he would never be able to squeeze his body through that tiny opening.

Behind him, he heard the key inserted in the lock, and as he turned toward it, the door swung open.

"Thinking about escaping?"

Carlton stood just inside the doorway holding a Styrofoam "to go" box and a large cup of hot liquid, presumably coffee. Steve's gaze rested for several moments on the box, and his stomach reacted to the enticing smell of marinara and cheese with an eager rumbling that he hoped the guard had not heard.

He kept his bearded face frozen in the cynical stare they had come to expect. "Oh, I think about it all the time," he answered, looking up at Carlton's face.

There was no logical reason to deny his wish for liberty, since he had no method of escaping. They had seen to that by containing him in a subterranean prison cell with cinderblock walls and no window, only a single ventilation grill that was too small to fit through, even if he had been able to pry it off the wall. Whenever he was alone, he often struggled with bouts of overwhelming depression wrought from a hopeless existence and long hours of boredom and loneliness, but when his jailers entered the room, the defiance for which he was well known returned, refusing to allow them to see him vulnerable.

Carlton did not respond to his confession, but as he placed the box on the card table that had been set up near the door for the purpose of meals, he noticed the way Steve's eye drifted to the open door, drawn as if by its own accord and by the strong force inside him, the desire for freedom. It was a fire that could not be extinguished, and Steve would have been surprised to know it, but Carlton secretly admired the fact that Vaughn had never been able to break his spirit.

He did not concern himself with the obvious direction of the prisoner's gaze. Behind him, filling the open door with his bulk, Harding stood rigidly at attention, glaring at Steve with unwavering alertness and intensity, blocking any notion of escape. He suspected that Harding would have been delighted with an escape attempt, for it would have been another excuse to use the dart rifle. Harding was a sadistic bastard, but he was good at the job he had been hired to do.

Carlton stepped back from the table, maintaining the proper distance from the prisoner to prevent a physical confrontation. It was unlikely to happen with Harding blocking the door, but it was best to avoid the temptation. "There's your dinner."

Steve's attention went to the Styrofoam box again, and the aromas coming from it were so unexpectedly appetizing that he started forward a little too abruptly for Harding's liking. The rifle was instantly brought into firing position, apparently viewing the sudden movement as aggressive, and the eye that looked down the sights dared him to make a wrong move.

Prudently, Steve froze, unwilling to give the sharpshooter a reason to pull the trigger, but he was not above engaging the hostile man in a staring match, refusing to break the gaze until Harding blinked. It was a pitifully inadequate victory, but he would take any that came his way.

He waited until Harding made an impatient gesture with the muzzle of the rifle, then, with the cocky gait he had maintained throughout his incarceration, Steve strode to the table and lifted the lid to reveal a generous serving of lasagna and a slice of garlic bread. It looked and smelled wonderful.

"What's the occasion?" Steve asked, sarcastically.

There was a barely discernable pause before Carlson answer, but it was enough that Steve noticed. "No occasion. Just thought you'd like to have something decent for a change. If you don't' want it, I can always bring down some scones and water."

The ball was back in Steve's court, and there was no way he was going to turn down such a rare treat. "I didn't say I don't want it. It's just rare enough to warrant some surprise." Letting the lid fall back into place, he turned to face Carlton. "Is it flavored with arsenic? Cyanide perhaps?"

Carlton reacted with the expected patience, tinged with annoyance, but there was something else in his eye that Steve did not fail to notice, a look that was typically not present during Steve's frequent sarcasm, but he was unable to put a label on it.

"Come now, Mr. Johnson," he said, recovering quickly. The look, whatever it was, had vanished. "You must surely have figured out by now that they don't want you dead."

"Who the hell is 'they'?" Steve demanded, his voice rising in frustration. When Carlton didn't answer, he continued, "I know that perverted bastard who likes to throw the switch is one of them, but who else? Is it Alamain? That's it, isn't it? I figure he's the one who blew up the boat when I was injured, so it makes sense he'd be the one to kidnap me, right? It's him, isn't it?"

Carlton sighed, as if weary from the questions that had been asked many times during his incarceration, questions that he would not be permitted to answer even if he knew them. "You've asked that often enough to know that I can't answer it. I work on a need to know basis, and that is one of the things I don't need to know, or even want to know."

It was a repeat of similar conversations they'd had many times, with somewhat different words or phrases, and Carlton suspected that the inquiries were merely methods of engaging for a few minutes in human dialogue and human contact. Most of his time was spent entirely alone in that dank, dark basement, an existence that would have driven many people insane.

When Steve made no more inquiries, Carlton backed out the door with Harding. A moment later, Steve heard the hollow echoing sound as the deadbolt was slid into place.

Left alone, Steve lifted the lid on the lasagna again and observed it with anticipation, then pulled out the cheap plastic chair and sat down to his meal.

His meals were typically neither so generous in portion nor so appetizing in appearance and aroma. Cold sandwiches, usually a hastily slapped together montage of low-cost spreads and cheap cuts of deli meat, or left-overs from Carlton's own home on the verge of being thrown out were the usual offerings, other times pre-made sandwiches bought at a store, were brought to him, varied occasionally with an inexpensive brand of frozen dinner heated in a microwave. Breakfast was always some type of cereal, almost always cold with milk that sometimes tasted sour, or rock-hard crusty bread rolls that he was certain could break glass. He suspected that the budget did not permit much in the way of feeding or clothing their prisoner, as evidenced not only from the food, but from the obviously second hand jeans and shirts they brought him. Shoes were not considered necessary, for he never left the basement, but Carlton had brought him a pair of hard-soled house shoes to protect his feet against the winter chill.

Restaurant food was a rare treat that sometimes followed a particularly brutal interrogation, such as the one he had endured the day before. Steve suspected that the unusual meal was due to guilt feelings from Carlton, most likely purchased with his own money, and almost certainly his way of apologizing for his part in the torture.

Carlton was a bit of a contradiction, in Steve's mind, and with nothing but time on his hands, he'd had plenty of time over the years to think about it. He seemed out of place in whatever it was that Vaughn was involved in, and he often seemed eager to make up for the atrocities that were committed against him. But why he simply didn't open the door and let him out, Steve could not guess. Perhaps they had some hold over him, or perhaps they had offered him a bonus of some sort once they achieved their goal, something too appealing to risk losing.

Whatever it was, Steve gave it no more thought as he picked up the detested plastic knife and fork, the only utensils they trusted him to use. They were flimsy and sometimes broke, forcing him to handle them with care, and Carlton always made sure the utensils were present when they collected his trash.

Applying them to one corner of the lasagna square, he cut off a piece.

The first bite was heavenly, easily the best meal he'd had during his years of confinement, and he fought the urge to wolf it down quickly. He had been confined for an unknown number of years, but he was determined to remain civilized. Carlton had outdone himself this time. Those guilt feelings must have been tremendous!

After swallowing couple of bites, deliciously cheesy and swimming in tasty marinara, Steve picked up the Styrofoam coffee cup and took a sip. As soon as the hot liquid touched his tongue, he sensed that something was wrong. The peculiar, slightly bitter taste was barely detectable, very subtle and not overpowering, but as the taste spread across his tongue, an unpleasant memory, formerly obscure and blurry, came rushing back with startling clarity and intensity. He had experienced that bitterness once before, years ago, when he had been housed in a different place; a taste that, at the time, he had presumed was merely a bitter brand of coffee or a poorly made pot. It had been followed by a long period of unconsciousness, during which time he had been moved to another location, waking up days later in the basement room he now occupied.

His memory of that other place was vague, but their intent was now obvious: they were going to move him to a different location, most likely a place large enough to accommodate both him and Kayla. That indicated they were going ahead with their plans to kidnap her, to use her as a means of extracting from him the information he was unable to provide.

The guilty look he had seen on Carlton's face flashed into his mind again. He had noticed it at the time, wondered about it, but then dismissed it, assuming it was the result of his participation in the torture. But now he knew: Carlton had known about the drugged coffee, and Steve's comments about the lethal drugs had caught him by surprise. Putting the drug in his coffee and combining it with a meal that was so delicious he'd be sure to eat it was an easy way of making sure it was willingly consumed.

Anger surged, refusing to submit to the drugging again. Rising quickly, he went into the tiny lavatory, merely a closet with a sink and toilet that had probably been there years before it had been converted to a jail cell, and spat the tainted coffee into the sink, then rinsed his mouth out with fresh water from the faucet, removing all traces of the bitterness. He then poured the remainder of the coffee down the drain as well.

He then considered the lasagna, still sitting on the small table. It was the best meal he had ever enjoyed during his captivity and he had not tasted the bitterness in it, making it unlikely to be tainted, especially since it had come from an apparently well-known restaurant. He saw no evidence of tampering, no indication that they had lifted a layer of pasta to place something beneath it, but he found himself unable to eat any more of it. He would not take the risk. The delicious square of lasagna was cut into pieces and flushed down the toilet.

Despite the fact that he would go hungry that night, it was a small price to pay for prudence, and he felt very smug that he had beaten them at their own game.

Or had he?"

Sinking down on the chair again, staring at the empty food carton, he realized that the guards would know he had figured them out when they returned and found him wide awake. The result was obvious: Harding would merely shoot him with the tranquilizer gun. The end result would be the same. He would be moved to the new location, and his act of defiance would have accomplished nothing.

Unless . . . . A plan began to form, one that might change everything.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

After discarding his tainted supper, Steve waited tensely at the small table, the empty food carton and coffee cup in front of him, anticipating the return of his guards, and planning what his move would be when they came. He knew with no uncertainty that if they returned that night, something they never did, it would confirm his suspicions, for his supper containers, usually paper plates, were always left until breakfast was brought to him the next morning.

Without a clock or watch, it was impossible to determine how much time had passed before he heard the hollow echoing slam of the door at the top of the basement stairs, followed by the heavy thudding of shoes on the wooden steps.

His eye turned toward the door, listening to the footsteps that resounded on the staircase, and he gave a slight affirmative nod, understanding that they had waited a predetermined duration to allow the drug sufficient time to work. No longer was there any doubt in his mind in regard to their intentions, nor was there any doubt that this might present his one and only chance to escape, a time when they believed he was unconscious and therefore allowing him to take advantage of the situation when they let their guard down.

The footsteps, two pairs of them, reached the bottom and approached the door. He heard the key inserted into the lock, and, with his heart thudding in eager anticipation, he folded his arms on the table and rested his head on them. Calming himself, he willed his body to relax, but kept his eye open and watched the door handle move, followed by the cautious opening of the door. He closed his eye before Carlton and Harding peered inside, but it was easy to imagine their inquiring expressions, observing the empty food and drink containers which provided the appearance was that he had surrendered to the effects of the drug while at the table.

There was a long pause as they observed him, then they pushed the door open fully and slowly approached the table. There was wariness in their footsteps, and they stopped just a few feet away to scrutinize him again. He could feel their eyes on him, heard their breathing as they stared at him, and smelled the cigarette smoke that permeated their clothing and hair.

Even without looking, he knew that Harding was almost certainly carrying the dart rifle, its muzzle directed at him, ready to fire if he made an aggressive movement, so he remained still, concentrating on drawing slow, even breaths.

A moment later, he felt a hand on his shoulder that shook him roughly. "Johnson?" It was Carlton's tense voice, a succinct effort to wake him, testing the effectiveness of the drug.

Steve did not respond to the query. Instead, he simply allowed his body to move limply beneath the hand that pushed back and forth in an attempt to rouse him, even allowing himself to come dangerously close to sliding out of the chair. Carlton's hand on his shoulder prevented the action, settling him back into place at the table again.

"He's out cold," Carlton announced, the stress in his voice relaxing. The hand was withdrawn, apparently satisfied that the drug had done its job.

"I remember the last time we used that stuff," Harding mused. "He didn't wake up for two days! I was starting to wonder if he would wake up at all." He chuckled with humor. "I thought Vaughn was going to go completely mental!"

Their words and voices had changed from wary to informal, and Steve sensed that both Carlton and Harding were letting their guard down, assuming that he was totally incapacitated. Hope and eager impatience surged, and he felt as if his heart had expanded, filling his chest with fervor that was difficult to control, but he knew it was not yet the time to make his move. He would wait for a better opportunity.

"A day or two is what I was told, according to the I.S.A.," Carlton continued, unaware that their conversation was being eavesdropped. "That'll be more than enough time to get him transferred, remove all the security sensors, and then reinstall them at the new place. Some of the new ones are already in place."

Steve felt his heart skip a beat with the verification of the I.S.A.'s involvement and confirmation that he was to have been moved, but it resolved none of his questions about why this had been done to him or what information they hoped to acquire.

"Okay, let's get this show on the road," Harding said.

Steve heard the sound of something being placed against the wall by the door, and he risked opening his eye just a fraction, trusting that they were no longer looking into his face at that moment. A thrill ran through him when he saw the dart rifle propped against the wall, just out of arm's reach. Harding had just disarmed himself, falling for the illusion that he was safe. Steve felt his heartbeat step up a notch, for the action by the guard had just made it even easier for him. All he had to do was grab the rifle and one of the two men would be quickly disabled.

"Back the van up to the door while I start dismantling the cot," Harding instructed. "And bring the stretcher down once you get that done."

"Sounds good," Carlton replied.

Steve's eye snapped shut again when Carlton strode briskly past his chair and out the door. A moment later, Steve heard footsteps pounding up the wooden steps to the first floor as Carlton trotted rapidly up them.

"Man, I'll be glad to get out of this dump," Harding muttered to himself.

This was better than Steve could have hoped for, but he knew he had mere minutes to react before Carlton returned to help carry him up the stairs. The rustle of Harding's clothing and the direction of his footsteps suggested that the guard had moved toward the bed, so he very cautiously opened his eye a slit. Harding was not within his line of vision, so he slowly and quietly turned his head over to face the interior of the room. Harding, his back to the door, was rolling up the thin mattress for transport.

Steve had no possessions of his own, only the few articles of cast-off clothing that were occasionally brought to him, but apparently the guards wanted to take the bed, the table, and the chairs with them on this trip, presumably to avoid a return trip, suggesting that the destination was distant enough to make it inconvenient or undesirable to make repeated returns.

Moving very quietly, Steve eased himself out of the chair and reached out to grasp the barrel of the dart rifle from where it was tipped against the wall. Now in his possession, he brought it to his shoulder, assuming the firing position.

Completely unaware of the danger behind him, Harding finished rolling up the mattress and withdrew some twine from his pocket to tie it securely.

Steve saw no reason to wait for him to turn around. Had it been a lethal weapon, he would never consider shooting him in the back, but it was only a tranquilizer gun, so he aimed the rifle at Harding's right buttock and pulled the trigger. Propelled by air pressure rather than gunpowder, the gun made a "pop" rather than a "bang", and he felt confident that, unless he was near, Carlton would not have heard it. There was only one dart in the chamber; he would not be able to subdue the other man in the same manner.

Harding made a low exclamation of surprise when the dart penetrated his trousers and imbedded in his fleshy rump, and he whirled around, his startled eyes widening with disbelief when he found himself looking up the wrong end of the dart rifle and Steve's angry eye glaring at him down the barrel.

"How does it feel to be on the receiving end, Harding?" Steve asked bitterly.

Harding reached behind him and yanked the dart out, staring at it as if it was a completely foreign object. "How did you . . ." His eyes rolled and his body went limp, falling under the effects of the fast-acting I.S.A. injectable.

With an impassive gaze, Steve watched as the man slumped to the floor then, tossing the now useless rifle aside, his eye went to Harding's sneakers, which he knew were called "trainers" in England. Steve had not been provided with a pair of shoes, for it was unnecessary inside the small room in which he resided, but he did not relish the idea of traveling any distance on bare feet that were tender from his long confinement or in the ill-fitting house slippers that Carlton had provided for cool nights. Without hesitation, he untied the laces and slipped them off Harding's feet. Sitting down on the edge of the bed frame, he quickly slipped them on his feet.

The shoes were not a perfect fit, but he had not expected that they would be. Harding was bigger and huskier than he was, but he was able to tighten them sufficiently with the laces, so they would adequately serve the purpose of protecting his feet during his escape.

Leaving the unconscious man on the floor, Steve went to the door and peered cautiously into the area beyond, that mysterious, forbidden zone he had never fully seen, taking a few moments to acquaint himself with the unfamiliar space.

It was smaller than he had expected, an unimpressive narrow corridor leading to a bare wall on his right and a single wooden staircase on the left. At the top of the stairs was the only door leading out of the basement. A small alcove was positioned directly in front of his door for washer and drier hookups, now empty, but it confirmed his belief that his prison had once been a small house. Above the hookups was a small ventilation window near the ceiling, the identical twin to the one in the cell. The only difference was that this one had not been covered by a grill. Through the yellowed glass, he could see the vague outline of a shrub.

Last, he examined the outer wall of his cell, noticing that it seemed out of place in the small area, constructed of bare gray cinderblock instead of the stone and mortar walls of the rest of the basement area, and he realized that it had not been an original part of the building. It had been constructed after the fact for the explicit purpose of keeping him confined.

The staircase leading up to the main floor was constructed of wood with a railing, and the steps were open with no backing, similar to basement steps he had seen back home in the United States. It was the pathway to freedom, but he resisted the urge to run blindly up them. Carlton was up there somewhere, and Steve's plan required him to be in the basement to bring it to conclusion.

Brisk footsteps in an overhead corridor attracted his attention, and his eye moved to the open door at the top of the stairs. Someone, presumably Carlton, was approaching.

The door to his cell opened outward, clearly designed to prevent their prisoner from hiding behind it whenever they opened it to bring his meals, but outside the room it provided the perfect hiding place in the forbidden zone. He quickly slipped behind the door and waited.

A few seconds later, he heard Carlton's footsteps coming down the wooden staircase. He did not hesitate at the bottom, but proceeded directly to the room, apparently expecting to find Harding dismantling the bed in preparation for the transfer. Instead, he found his unconscious, barefoot partner on the floor with a tranquilizer dart sticking out of his buttock, and the rifle, which should have been propped against the wall, was discarded on the far corner where Steve had flung it away.

He came to an abrupt halt in the doorway, and Steve heard the unease and bewilderment in his voice, "What the . . ."

Before he could complete his confused query, Steve leaned hard against the door and pushed it with as much force as he could. It struck the startled man in the back, sending him sprawling to the floor on his face. The lightweight military stretcher he had been carrying flew from his hands, coming to rest beside the unconscious Harding. Before he could recover, the deadbolt was slid into place.

Scrambling to his feet, he seized the door handle with frantic hands, and attempted to open it, but it remained firmly in place. He pounded on the door with his fists. "Johnson! Let me out of here!"

Steve leaned against the door, speaking through it, "Sorry, Carlton. No offense, man, but that is a stupid thing to say, considering the circumstances. Let's see how much you two like being locked in a room against your will!"

"Johnson!" There was a brief pause as he looked back at the unconscious Harding. "Let me out, and I'll help you get away!"

Steve was surprised by the hasty change of allegiance, but was not swayed. "You could have done that at some point over the years while I was being held against my will, but you chose not to."

"I couldn't!" Carlton insisted, frantically. "Harding was always here! We were never permitted to be here alone. It even requires two keys to unlock the door! You have to believe me; I never wanted to get involved in something like this!"

"But you _did_ get involved in it, and you helped robbed me of my freedom."

"I'm sorry, Johnson! I'm truly sorry! Just let me out of here!"

Steve heard the fear and panic in Carlton's voice at his current situation, but he felt very little guilt in reaction to the distressed shouts. It was true that he had exhibited certain kindnesses toward him, but he had also done nothing to free him or to return him to his family. Now he would get a much deserved taste of what he had put their prisoner through.

"Take my word for it, the claustrophobia will ease in time. Just try to relax. I'm sure one of your cronies will find you eventually. See ya 'round, boys!" he called cheerfully through the door, then turned and sprinted up the steps, taking them two at a time. By the time he reached the top, the unaccustomed exertion had left him winded, so he paused at the door to catch his breath, listening carefully for indications that Jennings or Vaughn might also be present in the house somewhere, but heard only Carlton's frantic shouts and the slightly muffled sound of a vehicle engine running, a sound that was inviting in its promise of transportation.

With great caution, alert to anything that might be a threat, he leaned out the door, looking left and right to orient himself with the unfamiliar floor plan. The basement door opened into a small kitchen and dining area, furnished sparsely with a small dinette table with two chairs, a plain white refrigerator, and a mismatched stove. The aromas of pasta and marinara lingered in the air, suggesting that while they waited for the drug to take effect, Carlton and Harding had also enjoyed a meal from the same restaurant that had provided the lasagna.

Emerging fully from the basement, he crept quietly from the kitchen into the narrow entryway toward the front door, following the sound of the vehicle. His heart gave an involuntary leap when he saw the service style van that had been backed up to the small porch just outside the open doorway, presumably to ensure ease in loading their unconscious victim into the back of it.

Steve's first instinct was to throw caution to the wind and rush for the van, but logic advised prudence. The van was running, indicating that the keys were in the ignition, but it also meant that someone might be waiting in the driver's seat. He did not want to leap inside it only to find Jennings or Vaughn waiting for him. He had successfully managed to get out of the basement; he must not become careless now.

Casting a precautionary glance in all directions, checking for movement and sound within the small house, he crept slowly toward the front door, then stopped just inside it to look carefully at the vehicle, focusing all his attention on the inside of it.

There were many items in the van, much of it items that were being used inside the cottage for the comfort of his guards, but an empty space on one side, enough space for a stretcher, bespoke of the intent of the two men who were now locked in the basement. It was a sobering reminder that he was supposed to be unconscious at that very moment, on his way to the new location where Kayla would eventually be brought into custody with him.

Memories of his wife filled his mind, but her imminent danger and the need to warn her were sufficient to force those precious remembrances into the background again. His most important mission at that moment was to make a successful escape. Lifting his eyes from the sobering empty spot, he observed the two seats at the front of the van and was pleased to find that they were both empty. It was safe to make his move.

He entered the vehicle from the back, pausing only long enough to pull the doors closed behind him and latch them securely. He did not really care if anything fell out the back, but he did not want to be pulled over by someone trying to help. Turning, he made his way through the clutter toward the front of the van.

The steering wheel was on the right side of the van, and that briefly gave him pause. Locked in the basement, away from the rest of the world, it was easy to forget that British driving habits were opposite those of the United States, but he recovered quickly from his surprise and dropped into the driver's seat. Glancing around briefly, familiarizing himself with the console and controls, he noticed that there was a pile of change tossed into the cup holder, a habit he himself had done back home. At least it would give him a bit of change for food, so he scooped it up and stuffed it into his pocket. He would count it later.

Then, with a heart that pounded both with exhilaration at his escape and panic that he would be caught before he could get fully away, he shifted the van into drive and accelerated away from the house.

He did not bother to look back, focusing only on the narrow road ahead of him which made a straight line into a stand of trees that completely surrounded the meadow in which the house was positioned. It provided the perfect screen from prying eyes of others, he realized. They could not have selected a more secluded spot to confine him.

The view through the windshield was the first time he had seen the outside world since before his abduction. In his cell, locked away below ground level, he had been unable to see the radiance of the sunshine. Brilliant and somehow comforting, it was beautifully mesmerizing. Emotion rose inside him, but he tamped it down. There would be time to appreciate nature and his freedom later. Now, he must put a safe distance between him and the house.

The closely growing stand of trees seemed to sprint past the van at a dizzying speed, and the bright dappled sunlight filtered through the branches, flashing through the windows in an annoying manner. Accustomed to the muted, artificial light of the basement, his eye reacted to the assault by squinting and watering uncomfortably. Or perhaps it was at least partly the raw emotion wrought from his successful escape that was the culprit behind the watery eye. Whatever the reason, he did not slow as he followed the winding paved road away from the prison-house. In an effort to clear his vision, he swiped his hand carelessly across the eye, fighting the almost overwhelming urge to weep with joy.

Soon, the narrow drive came out of the trees and ended at a crossroad. With a sensation of urgency pushing him onward, Steve did not want to stop, fearful that someone might materialize behind him or even in front of him, someone with the ability to recapture him. But a traffic accident needed to be avoided, so he reluctantly pressed the brake and the van came to a complete stop. The engine idled as he turned his head to look left and right, trying to decide which way to go. There were no signposts to guide him, and no clear way to get where he needed to go. He was free, but a great ocean separated him from his loved ones. It was clear that he was going to need help in achieving his goal.

Longingly, he turned to the left again, the west, where the sun was slipping toward the horizon, and his instinct was to turn that direction, toward the direction where Kayla waited across the Atlantic, but he would be facing a blinding sun, a fact which might hinder his ability to quickly spot and react to danger.

His head then turned to the right, staring up the narrow two lane road that crested a nearby hill and disappeared beyond it. His first priority was to put as much distance as possible between him and his former guards. He would worry about direction later.

Turning the wheel to the right, he eased out onto the asphalt road, initially taking the right hand side of the street before he remembered that the British method of driving was on the left side of the road. He moved into the proper lane and accelerated down the motorway, concentrating on acquainting himself with the vehicle and the unfamiliarity of driving on, what was to him, the wrong side of the road. As he gradually became more comfortable, his mind began to turn over the things he knew about his incarceration and his escape.

Trapped in his cell, away from clocks and radios and televisions, he had never been able to determine the precise hour on any given day, but the sun behind him indicated that it was early evening and that he was traveling east. The long ribbon of highway stretched out before him, nestling its way between the gentle green hills, inviting him forward with a comforting illusion of infinity. But now he needed a plan to get himself home.

He had no confirmation of why he had been brought to England or how they had accomplished that, but he could only guess that it was to keep him closer to I.S.A. headquarters and their constantly adapting technology. What was clear, however, was that he would be unable to get back to the United States on his own. There was also the matter of documentation and money to purchase airline tickets. He would require the assistance of someone who had cash, strong nerves, and discreet contacts. He knew only one Englishman, and fortunately that one man had all those qualities.

There were several drawbacks, though. First, he was often away from his homeland in the course of his employment, and there was no way to know in advance if he was abroad. And second, he worked for the I.S.A., the very organization that had provided the drug that had been intended for use by his guards to subdue him for transport to the new location.

The thought gave him pause, and the placid, handsome face of Shane Donovan flashed in his mind as he wondered if he could be trusted. Shane had been married to Kayla's sister Kim, but recalled that they had been having marital trouble at the time of his kidnapping. Would he be so willing to bring heartache to the Brady family by being a part of whatever scheme had been designed at Steve's expense?

There was no way of knowing if Shane was involved, and clearly it was a chance he would have to take, but first he needed to know precisely where he was.

Shane owned a large ancestral estate in the Cotswold, not far from Bath. He was uncertain precisely where, but if he could find his way to Bath, surely he could find someone who could direct him to the estate.

He was currently in a rural area of England, with long stretches of rolling land dotted here and there with an occasional house, but he was unwilling to stop at any of them to knock on their doors, knowing that a one-eyed American with a long scraggly beard and long tangled hair would almost certainly be met with suspicion, perhaps even hostility. So he drove onward while the sun continued its gradual descent, until finally he saw a signpost on the side of the road indicating that he was nearing the town of Loughborough. On impulse, he pulled over on the shoulder and with the engine idling, he opened the glove compartment. Sure enough, right on top, was a folded map of England. Circled in red was a location near the North York moors, the destination that had apparently been intended for his relocation. Dismissing that as insignificant now, he located Loughborough on the map and traced his finger down to Bath, noting the routes he could take. Then, using the legend in the corner, he estimated that he had about 150 miles to travel. Approximately three hours was all it would take to reach Shane Donovan.

Satisfied, he tossed the map on the passenger seat and accelerated back onto the road.

Steve's heart lifted a bit more with each mile he saw roll past on the odometer. "I'm coming home, Kayla," he said aloud, his voice choked with emotion. "I'm coming home, Sweetness!"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Eleven

"Something's wrong."

Jennings' ominous words broke the tense stillness that had settled over the moor. The sun was setting behind him, silhouetting him against the waning light. Soon, it would be completely dark, and Carlton and Harding had not yet arrived with Johnson.

While Vaughn mulled over the short statement without responding, his right hand man and second in command took one last drag on the stub of his cigarette, watching as the tip of it brightened briefly, then he dropped it on the ground in a shower of tiny sparks, and crushed it beneath his shoe.

"They should have been here almost an hour ago," he continued when Vaughn did not answer. Annoyance surged at his employer's rare indecisiveness. "Something must have happened."

Vaughn stood quietly in front of the door to the stone cottage that had been recently purchased by their benefactor, anticipating that there would be need for another transfer of Johnson, in accordance with stronger efforts to extract information from him. The desolate location would discourage unwanted attention from outsiders, but it was distance from civilization would make it unattractive to the guards who would share the duty of seeing to his needs and preventing his escape. It had already been outfitted with the necessary security measures to control Johnson, and a few additional alterations were underway in the vast basement to accommodate the wife when she arrived.

Aware that Jennings was watching him with critical eyes, waiting for a response, Vaughn continued to gaze up the narrow road that wound out of sight between craggy tors and barren hills, hoping to see the headlights which would signal the arrival of the van with its human cargo. So many things had already gone wrong with this assignment that another failure might result in his employer making the decision to do away with all of them and find a more competent team.

With the encroaching darkness, he knew that Jennings' assessment was most likely correct. Calls to both Harding and Carlton had been routed to voice mail.

"Agreed," he said quietly in answer to Jennings' last statement. "We need to check on this in person. It's almost dark, and if something has happened, we don't want to waste any more time before identifying what it is and what we need to do to correct it."

Jennings immediately reached into his pocket and withdrew the keys to his car, and they started walking toward it."

Vaughn opened the car door and sat down in the passenger seat while Jennings went to the driver's side and started the ignition. The headlights were turned on, pushing back the darkness that continued to encroach on the desolate, depressing landscape.

Jennings glanced at him across the seat. "We should never have let this project go on so long," he worried.

"It was _his_ call, not mine," Vaughn said defensively.

Jennings did not require clarification. He knew his employer was referring to the mysterious man who had been funding everything they had done since the beginning; the nameless, faceless entity who so desperately wanted something in Johnson's possession that he would risk anything and anyone, and spend any amount of money to get it.

* * *

Darkness had settled fully over the English countryside. The twin beams of light from the headlamps illuminated the narrow two lane road ahead of the van, but the lenses of the aging vehicle had oxidized, reducing their efficiency and diminishing their reach.

After nearly two hours on the road, Steve had grown more comfortable with the steering wheel on the right side of the vehicle and driving on the right side of the road. The window was down, permitting the cool evening breeze to enter the van, and he drove in a casual manner with his right arm resting on the window frame while the wind generated by the speed whipped his very long hair and beard.

It was a pleasant night with a clear sky and a host of stars, and Steve's heart was filled with the joy of his freedom. Were it not for the opposing driving methods used by the British, he could almost have been driving down any country road in the United States. He had passed many small towns that flanked the narrow road on which he traveled, communities that were not so different than Salem.

He was in farming country, evidenced by the few scattered houses and barns he saw nestled into scenic valleys with sheep, cattle, and horses grazing peacefully beneath the starlight. More than once, his eye lingered wistfully on the cheerfully lighted windows, knowing that the residents were likely enjoying an evening of television or conversation before retiring for the night, as he and Kayla had done each night after putting baby Stephanie to bed.

A painful lump rose in his throat at the thought of his daughter, and he had to swallow several times to relieve it, recalling how he and Kayla had often stood silently beside Stephanie's crib watching her sleep, marveling at the beautiful life they had created through their love. How old was she now? Because he had no way of counting off the months and years, he could not even attempt to guess how long he had been away, and resentment rose inside him again, anger and frustration at the time that had been robbed from him.

He was so deep in thought that he was totally unprepared for the muffled explosion beneath the van when a tire suddenly blew. The steering wheel wrenched itself from his startled hands as the van careened to one side. In the headlights, he saw the looming sight of a stone fence, and he grabbed for the steering wheel again at the same time he stomped on the brake, bringing the vehicle back under control. It skidded to an abrupt halt on the grassy shoulder at the edge of the road, leaning precariously on its axle. Fine particles of dust drifted across the headlights, which were still directed at the fence, now alarmingly near the front bumper.

Steve sat quietly for a few moments as his senses caught up with the events that had just occurred, and in despair he leaned his head back against the head-rest and closed his eye. His heart was pounding like a galloping horse, while the van idled roughly, its engine in desperate need of a tune-up.

He drew a deep, calming breath. Okay, a setback, but not necessarily a roadblock. He had changed many tires during his life, and figured that British tires could not be so different than American.

Leaning across the seat, he opened the glove compartment again, this time hoping to find a flashlight. The small compartment illuminated when he opened it, revealing the vehicle's papers, a tire gauge, two packs of cigarettes, and a greasy rag, none of which he had any use.

Leaving the compartment open, he got out of the van and walked around to the passenger side to view the flat tire on the rear. He was far from a street lamp and the light from the vehicle's overhead light and the taillights had a limited reach, so it was difficult to see in the dark, but from the large ragged tear he felt beneath his exploring hand, it was a total blowout. Bits and pieces of the tire could be seen scattered about the pavement behind the vehicle in the faint glow from the taillights.

Hoping to find a spare tire mounted on a holder on the rear door, he walked to the back of the van, but found no tire mount there. Kneeling, he looked underneath between the two rear tires, and found the empty tire mount.

With a sigh of frustration, he sat down on the rear bumper to think about his next course of action. He had been following the signs south from Longborough, and believed he would have reached Bath within another half hour or so, but that was by vehicle.

Turning, he looked back in the direction from which he had come, looking north back toward Crudwell, but he could no longer see the lights of the town. The change in the cup holder would not buy a tire, so it would do no good to travel back to the last town he had passed. Nor could he wait for someone to happen along the road to help him, for anyone traveling on that road could be Vaughn's men, who would be searching for him as soon as they were freed from the basement room.

He had no choice but to finish the journey to Bath on foot.

Resigned to his journey, he stood up and looked into the van again, this time in search of something that might be useful to him. The map would be needed, of course, but a compass, a canteen or bottled water would have been useful. Finding nothing, he pushed the rear doors closed, then went to the front of the vehicle and yanked the keys from the ignition. After a moment's consideration of what to do with them, he tossed them over the stone fence. He doubted they would lose much time looking for them, since most vehicles had spare keys, but if it belonged to one of the guards, he would surely want them back, and the search might slow at least one of them down.

Then he began walking along the edge of the road toward the south, trying to pace himself at a comfortable tempo. Once, he glanced behind him, casting one last, longing look at the disabled van that he had hoped would carry him all the way to Bath, then put it out of his mind.

For a half hour or so, he continued walking along the edge of the road until he heard the sound of a vehicle coming up behind him. Fearing it might be one of Vaughn's men, he vaulted over the stone fence and hid behind it until the car had sped past. Rising up to peer over the top of the fence, he gazed after the fading taillights, understanding that walking along the side road was a risk he should have considered.

With Vaughn's men sure to be trailing him, he knew he must stay off the road. That meant, he must keep to the fields and pastures and avoid the thoroughfares. Standing up again, he set out across the countryside.

* * *

Jennings' car emerged from the circle of trees that surrounded the small cottage, coming to a complete stop at the edge of the tree line to observe the house in which Johnson had been held prisoner. There was no unusual activity around the cottage, and light glowed softly from the window of the main room, spilling out onto the grassy lawn in an elongated yellow square, giving it a welcoming appearance in contrast to the horrors that had been done to the man who had been held prisoner within its walls.

Jennings glanced across the seat at Vaughn. "It looks perfectly normal, like any other night. Could they have misunderstood the day or the time of the transfer?"

"Very curious," Vaughn mused with a shrug. "Drive forward."

Jennings eased off the brake and the car moved slowly forward, but his foot rested lightly on the pedal, ready to stop again if anything looked threatening. As they neared the cottage, they saw the front door standing wide open, with light glowing in the room at the far end of the long entryway, but felt no immediate alarm. It was not unusual for anyone to have a door open to admit the cool breeze.

"Harding's car is still here, but there's no sign of the transport van," Jennings said.

The car crept slowly up the long drive, finally coming to a stop behind the car.

The two men got out of the vehicle, but stood quietly beside it for several moments, cautiously appraising the area for any indication that dangers might be lurking nearby. The entire area was quiet. Almost _too_ quiet, in Jennings' opinion.

"Harding? Carlton?" he shouted, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the intense stillness.

Neither of the two men appeared in the doorway, and Jennings felt his stomach tighten with unease. "I have a bad feeling about this. Maybe the I.S.A. figured out your man was stealing from them, and they tracked them back here!"

"Impossible," Vaughn retorted in response to the fact that Jennings had put a voice to the thoughts he had been considering. He had carefully selected and vetted his choice of operations inside the I.S.A., but, however unlikely it was, it had to be considered as a possibility. "Even if they figured out there were devices missing, there is no way they could figure out where they were taken."

"Unless your man squealed," Jennings countered, panic rising. "I bet that's what happened! They caught him, and he told them everything!" His eyes darted frantically around the yard, imagining agents hiding in every shadow. "What if they're waiting for us inside?"

"Calm yourself," Vaughn said with disgust. "He was never informed of this location or even what the devices were used for. No, something else has happened. The first thing we're going to have to do is check on Johnson. He is the most important thing right now."

As they approached the wide-open front door, they heard a muffled shout, but were unable to make out the words. The voice, however, sounded like Carlton. Vaughn withdrew his pistol from inside his jacket, and, unable to determine the origin of the shout, they went up the walkway and entered the house.

Moving cautiously, they made their way to the kitchen, where the door to the basement was standing wide open, an ominous sight, and they approached it warily. Vaughn aimed the pistol down the long wooden staircase.

The overhead light was burning in the quiet basement, and they noted that the door to Johnson's room was closed. The keypad on the wall, linked to the security devices they had installed to prevent the prisoner's escape, was blank, indicating that the alarms were turned off. Then they heard the banging sounds on the other side of it, indicating that someone was trying to get out.

The realization struck Vaughn almost like a stunning physical blow. "Damn it!" he swore.

He hurried down the stairs with more urgency than Jennings had ever seen him display. With the feeling of unease intensifying, he went down after him, half expecting the kitchen door to slam shut behind them, trapping them inside.

Vaughn proceeded to the door and placed his hand on the deadbolt as if to open it, then stopped. Leaning his face against the solid door, he called, "Carlton? Harding? Are you in there?"

"Yes!" came the muffled reply. "Johnson got the drop on us!"

"Damn! _Damn!"_ Vaughn fumed, then muttered to himself, "I have half a mind to leave you imbeciles in there!"

But he didn't. He needed the help of every man available, and that included the two who had failed in the task he had given them. Releasing the deadbolt, he pulled the door open to glare at Carlton, who stood just inside with a shamefaced, apologetic expression.

"You two had better have a good explanation for this."

Briefly, Carlton explained how Johnson had tricked them, even shooting Harding with his own dart rifle, before locking them in the basement room and escaping in the van.

Vaughn listened with mounting rage. "Why didn't you call on your mobile phone to let us know what had happened?"

"I tried, but I couldn't get a signal down here."

Vaughn nodded toward Harding, who was sitting on the floor against the cot frame, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. "Is he all right?"

Carlton glanced at the recovering sharpshooter, understanding that Vaughn's question was more to determine his usefulness than to inquire after his health. "He's fine. He has a bit of a headache, but -"

Harding scrambled to his feet, his eyes fierce, determined to redeem himself and take revenge, even though he swayed slightly on his feet and grasped the edge of the table to support himself. "It'll go away as soon as I get my hands on Johnson!" he vowed. "He will regret shooting me with –"

"Did you administer the correct dosage of the drug in his coffee?" Vaughn interrupted, his voice terse, dismissing the other man's angry threat.

"Of course we did!" Harding snapped, resentfully, stinging from both the event and from Vaughn's implication. "You can see for yourself that the coffee cup is empty!"

Vaughn glanced at it, and his face darkened with rage. "A little _too_ empty, I should think! You fools! The drug would have started working long before he finished either the coffee or the food! Look! Both containers are completely empty! _Scraped over the edge_, in fact!"

Jennings and Carlton looked at the empty containers on the small table, noticing how the marinara and cheese had left a stain right over the edge of the container.

"He dumped them?" Jennings asked, incredulously. "That means he _knew_!"

Vaughn's expression was fierce as he glared at Carlton and Harding. "He either figured out what you were up to, or he overheard you talking. And it provided him with the opportunity to escape. How long ago did this happen?"

Harding shrugged, having spent most of the time unconscious and therefore unaware of the passage of time, but Carlton glanced at his watch. "An hour and a half. Maybe a little more."

"An hour," Vaughn said, quietly. "He obviously took the van, which gives him a huge head start. We must think of some way to minimize that advantage."

"How?" Jennings asked, incredulously. "We don't even know which direction he's headed."

Vaughn fell silent for several moments, but the answer was obvious. "His goal will be Shane Donovan's place. Donovan is the only person he knows in England, so it makes perfect sense that is where he's headed."

"He should be getting pretty close," Carlton said. "Less than an hour out, if he's on the most direct route."

"I doubt it," Vaughn said, coolly. "When he escaped, he had no idea where he was. Given our accents, he probably assumed he is somewhere in England, but the location of this cottage could be anywhere. He would have driven around for a while looking for road signs, possibly in the wrong direction, and then I suspect he would have found someone to give him directions, since the towns will be unfamiliar to him. Hopefully that will have slowed him up a bit, but regardless, we must get to the Donovan estate before he does."

Carlton exchanged a brief glance with Harding, both electing not to mention the map in the van that would have told Johnson everything he needed to know.

"What if he does get there ahead of us?" Jennings asked.

Vaughn gazed at him a moment, reluctant to admit that he hadn't a clue. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

"A46 is the most-traveled route," Carlson pointed out, trying to be helpful. "It's fast and it's four lane."

Vaughn gave him a stern look mingled with disgust that he and Harding had failed so miserably, then without acknowledging his comment, he turned his attention to Jennings, the only one of the three deemed capable. "He hasn't driven in a very long time, and he is unaccustomed to British driving habits. More likely, he will choose narrow, less-traveled roads. That makes A429 the most likely route. That is the road I want you to take. Try to close the distance in that fast car of yours. If you are stopped for speeding, you will be reimbursed for the penalty."

Jennings reacted to his favored status with a distinct air of self-importance. "What do you want me to do if I catch up with him?"

Vaughn's eye found the discarded dart rifle lying against the cinderblock wall. "Harding, bring me the rifle."

Harding did as directed, retrieving the weapon and taking it to his employer.

Vaughn did not take it. Harding was uncertain if he wanted to avoid leaving his own fingerprints on the tool, or if he simply detested the idea of handling such objects "Give it to Jennings. I assume you have additional darts in your arsenal?"

Harding hesitated, reluctant to give away the rifle that had been in his possession since the beginning of the project, but he understood that he had fallen from grace. Reluctantly, he passed the gun to Jennings, who took it to examine it. "The extra darts are on a shelf in the refrigerator."

Jennings nodded and started to turn to leave, but Vaughn stopped him.

"Take only a few," he instructed. "If you find the van, run him off the road if you must, then disable him with a dart. Remember, he's no use to us dead, so do what you must, but make absolutely certain that he survives. Understood?"

Jennings nodded. "Understood." He turned and exited through the door.

Vaughn turned to the other two. "Harding, I believe you have a backup weapon, do you not?"

"Yes, sir. In the boot of my car."

"You will take that one. Are you recovered sufficiently to drive?"

Harding brightened. It seemed he was not entirely disgraced after all, and would have a chance to redeem himself. "Yes sir!" he responded eagerly.

"I want you two to take A46. As Carlton said, it's fast and four lanes. Keep your mobile phones on and with you at all times. If Johnson is found, report directly to me."

As they started up the stairs, they heard Jennings' car accelerate down the lane to carry out his employer's orders.

"We have to fix this mess," Vaughn told them. "I expect you to find him and bring him back! Anything less is unacceptable."


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Morning sunlight glistened on the choppy water that lapped playfully against the thick wooden pillars supporting the riverfront boardwalk and reflected in the windows of the buildings. Kayla's soft soled sneakers made a dull sound on the wood planks as she made her way along the dock, moving toward a specific and anticipated destination. It was a path she had taken many times prior to her departure from Salem. Twenty years earlier, she had made this walk nearly every day on her way to work at the Riverfront Emergency Clinic, a minor emergency clinic opened by forward thinking staff members at the University Hospital.

This was the poor side of town, where the underprivileged people of Salem eked out a living as dock workers or peddled their wares in the hopes of making a few dollars for families they could barely afford to feed, and could ill afford to pay for the illnesses and accidents that occurred in their day to day life.

The late Tom Horton, who had been chief of staff at University Hospital at the time, had been the mastermind behind the project that had eventually culminated into the Clinic. The plan was that it would be run by a nurse practitioner with the knowledge and ability to treat minor injuries and illnesses. She would be the only paid medical staff member, for it was she who would run the clinic full time. For more serious cases, doctors from the Hospital would volunteer their services on a rotating basis.

It had been an ambitious project, approved by the hospital's legal staff, which included Dr. Horton's son, Mickey. With the financial support of wealthy mogul Victor Kiriakis, they had procured the property in the riverfront district and had begun the preliminary tasks of remodeling the existing building in preparation for the patients that would be treated there.

Kayla paused on the edge of the wooden dock, gazing out across the water, a view she had often stopped to enjoy during those long-ago days, and a sense of warm nostalgia washed over her as she thought of that first meeting with Tom Horton. She recalled that her parents had been going through a rough spot in their marriage, and she had just returned to Salem from her home in Cleveland for what she had intended to be a temporary visit. Tom had immediately been interested in her and her qualifications. It seemed she was exactly what they had been looking for. Though reluctant at first, the idea of running the clinic for those people who needed help the most had been very attractive, and she had finally accepted the position.

Resuming her walk, she followed the boardwalk's unique curves and turns along the edge of the river. She knew it could often be dangerous to walk this area alone, as it had been twenty years earlier, but she was dressed casually, less like the wealthy doctor that she was, and more like the middle class woman she had been in her younger days.

Finally, she turned a corner around a tall wood planked building, and there it was; The Riverfront Emergency Clinic. On the exterior, it was very much as she had remembered, but through the glass door and picture windows, she noticed that it had been remodeled during her absence. The receiving desk, which had once backed up to the window, was now positioned against the solid wall left of the door. Several patients sat in the waiting room chairs, most of them reading magazines or watching a small television that was mounted in a corner, most likely a donation by one of the hospital staff.

Kayla stood watching as the receptionist picked up the telephone, answering a call. From the time Kayla had temporarily lost her hearing, she was able to read the woman's lips: _Emergency Center, how may I help you? _However, the voice she heard in her mind was that of Steve's sister, Adrienne, who had taken that position in the clinic's early days.

"Excuse me, miss?" asked a hesitant voice, a voice so thin and tremulous that Kayla knew before she turned toward it that the speaker would be elderly.

It was a woman seated on an overturned shipping crate in the shady recess beside a building, her face lined with age, but her eyes bright with pride and wise with age. Potholders were displayed on a second crate, the old fashioned kind made from stretchy loops arranged on a weaving loom. She had owned a potholder kit as a child, and was surprised to realize that they were still available.

"Would you like to buy a potholder?" the woman asked. "Only one dollar each."

Kayla had no need of the homemade potholders, for she had plenty at home, but like many well-to-do people, she often gave generously to charities and did what she could to help those less fortunate, so she stepped closer to examine them. They were all colors, some a solid color or checked with two colors overlapped on the loom; others were multi-colored as if the loops had been chosen haphazardly.

Kayla selected two matching potholders and handed the woman a $20 bill. "Keep the change," she said.

The woman hesitated, clearly reluctant to accept more than what she considered a fair price. Kayla knew she was from a generation that believed in hard work and making one's own way in life. Her own parents were that way, and they had raised her to adhere to the same principles: hard work and living within one's means yielded a good life. But she also knew that there were some, through unexpected hardship or just plain bad luck, for whom the philosophy failed.

"It's okay," Kayla assured her. "My parents own a pub and restaurant, and these are exactly what they needed."

"Thank you, miss. Bless you!"

Turning back to the clinic, her new potholders tucked inside her purse, Kayla walked up to the door and pushed it open. As she stepped into the waiting room, she detected the familiar smells of disinfectant and various bodily excretions, and, as always, she was struck by the poor hygiene of the people who waited for medical care.

A small child with a runny nose crawled on the floor only a few feet from a man who was hugging a plastic container under his chin, his rather gray face suggesting that he was suffering from a stomach virus or perhaps food poisoning. Across from him, a young woman sneezed into her hands, then reached for a magazine from the rack, and a young man coughed without covering his mouth, oblivious to those around him.

Kayla shook her head with a bewildered sigh. Lack of proper hygiene was not merely a problem among the poor and uneducated. She saw plenty of people from all walks of life who failed to practice simple good hygiene.

"May I help you?"

Kayla turned toward the receptionist, who had hung up the telephone and was observing her with a curious expression. The clinic was intended to help those we were poor, and even in casual attire, Kayla was obviously well off.

"Just taking a tour of my past," Kayla replied. "I used to work here."

"You did? Are you a nurse?"

"I was then. I'm a doctor now. I just arrived back in town a few nights ago. I was in the neighborhood and just wanted to see if the Clinic was still open." She looked around, her gaze settling on the examining rooms. "Sure has changed a lot since my day."

"What's your name?"

"Kayla Johnson. I was Kayla Brady back then."

The receptionist immediately became more interested, recognizing the name. "I've heard of you. You're the one who opened this clinic."

"Well, I was involved in the opening and early operation of the clinic, but it was Doctor Horton's idea." She glanced at the wall behind the reception desk, where someone had hung a portrait of the late doctor. "The man was brilliant." Turning, she glanced toward the waiting area. "Looks like you have a full house."

"It's pretty much always that way, but I guess you know that."

"Actually, when we first opened, we had trouble convincing people they wouldn't have to pay if they couldn't afford it. Once the word got out, though, they started coming in droves."

"And they still do," the receptionist said, nodding toward the waiting room. "I'm Betty, by the way."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Kayla responded.

The door burst open, startling both women, who turned toward it.

A man staggered into the clinic, sagging under the weight of the injured man he was half carrying, half dragging. The injured man was gagging horribly, his hands at his throat. His face was purple and his bulging eyes turned instinctively toward Kayla, silently pleading for help.

"I need help," the other man said, his voice amplified in panic.

"What happened?" Betty asked.

"We were unloading on the pier around the corner, and he was hit in the throat by the boom. He's having a lot of trouble breathing, so I rushed him over here."

"Take him into room one." Betty turned frantic eyes to Kayla, recognizing that this was an emergency that could not wait. "Nurse Radke usually opens up each morning, but she isn't here yet. She had a flat tire on the way in. I hate to ask, but - you did say you're a doctor, right?"

"I'm not licensed to practice in this state," Kayla told her, but even as she said it, she knew the man's life depended on her. "All right. Call for an ambulance, and then place a call to the chief of staff at University Hospital and transfer the call to Room One. That's where I'll be."

Kayla followed the two men into the examining room while the receptionist placed the phone calls.

The helper had placed his friend on the examining table and was struggling to hold him down. The Injured man thrashed desperately as he struggled to breathe.

"Can't you help him?" the man asked, his eyes wide and terrified.

"How long ago was he injured?" Kayla asked.

"I don't know; a few minutes? I brought him here as soon as it happened. He was breathing okay at first, even though you could tell he was in pain, but then he starting having more and more trouble. By the time we got here, he was really having trouble."

"Hold him down," Kayla instructed.

While the man pinned his friend on the table, Kayla's gentle fingers probed the patient's throat, then pried his mouth open to look in his throat. He uttered a gurgling sound, then lost consciousness. His face was turning an unnatural shade of blue.

Betty burst through the door. "The ambulance is on its way, and the hospital is on line one."

Kayla snatched up the phone. "This is Dr. Kayla Johnson. Who am I talking to?"

"Sherry Bargas, Dr. Davenport's personal assistant."

"He's the chief of staff?"

"Yes." She was chewing gum, and it popped and snapped annoyingly and unprofessionally in Kayla's ear through the phone.

"I need to speak to him right away."

"He's in a meeting right now. Your receptionist has apprised me of your situation. Dr. Easton just left the hospital and should be there in about ten minutes."

"In ten minutes, this man will be dead! I have a patient here with a possible crushed larynx. He can't breathe. Do you understand me?"

"I understand that, Dr. Johnson," she replied in a tone that indicated resentment. "However -"

"There is no 'however'," Kayla interrupted. "This man only has minutes before permanent brain damage. Do you want that on your hands?" When Sherry did not respond during Kayla's brief pause, she continued, "Get him on the phone _now_!"

Kayla heard the 'click" as she was placed on hold.

Turning to Betty, she said, "Get a trake kit."

The receptionist rushed to the supply room as Kayla heard the sound of the phone being picked up again on the other end.

"This is Dr. Davenport," said a mellow voice. "I'm told you have a situation at the clinic."

"I'm Dr. Kayla Johnson and I have a man here with a probable crushed larynx. The airway has been completely blocked for about two minutes, and an airway cannot be inserted orally. The problem is, I'm the only medically qualified person on site at the moment. I would like to do a tracheotomy, but I'm not licensed to practice in this state."

"But you are an M.D.?"

"Yes."

"All right. There's no time to hash out formalities." Upon learning of the dire situation, his voice had taken on an urgent quality. "I'm on the medical board, and I will take responsibility. I'll verbally grant you emergency privileges, and we'll work out the paperwork later. There should not be a problem. Stop by my office when it's done and we'll take care of the details."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Slamming down the phone, she quickly washed her hands. She was drying them as the receptionist came back into the room carrying the tracheotomy kit.

Betty helped her into the latex gloves, and Kayla went to work on the tracheotomy. Within seconds beneath her skillful hands, the tube was in place and the patient was breathing again.

"Was it in time?" Betty asked, quietly.

"I hope so. We lost valuable time dealing with Dr. Davenport's gum-snapping secretary, but he was breathing a bit at first, before the swelling closed off the trachea, so that may have bought some time."

She lifted one of the patient's eyelids, and the receptionist immediately produced a pen light.

"Thanks," Kayla said. She lifted the eye lids, one at a time, and was pleased to see that the pupils were equal and reactive to the pen light. "Looks good," she announced. "He's stable."

"He's gonna be okay?" asked the friend who had retreated to a chair against the wall during the procedure.

"I think so," Kayla replied. "Without some imaging, I can't tell how much damage was done to the larynx, but you got him here quickly, and that made all the difference. What about you? Are you all right? You look a little pale."

Betty filled a paper cup with water and handed it to him. He accepted it gratefully, and took a sip. "Thanks. I'm afraid I had to swallow my breakfast a second time when you cut into him with that knife." His gaze fell upon his friend's face. "His color looks better."

They were interrupted by the shrill wail of a siren approaching the clinic. Although the staff parking lot was a bit of a walk from the clinic, there was a narrow space at the rear of the building that had been reserved for emergency vehicles.

"Sounds like the ambulance is here," Betty said. "I'll bring them in."

She disappeared through the door, and a moment later, Kayla felt a hand on her arm. Turning back to the patient, she saw that his eyes were open and looking at her.

She smiled soothingly. "How are you feeling? Better?"

Unable to respond verbally, he gave a "thumbs up", then pointed to his throat, seeking information.

"That boom did some damage to your larynx," she explained. "When the tissue started swelling, it closed off your trachea. I inserted a tube below the larynx so you can breathe."

"Will he need surgery?" asked the friend, who had stood up and moved closer.

"It may require surgery to repair the damage to the larynx," she confirmed, speaking to the patient. "We won't know how much damage was done until you get to the hospital and they can take some pictures and view your throat through a scope. I know you're probably in some pain -"

He managed a slight nod.

"They'll give you something for that at the hospital, so just hang on a little longer."

He gave another slight nod and squeezed her wrist. Even without words, the meaning was clear.

"You're welcome," she responded.

The door opened and a couple of paramedics entered pushing a gurney. Kayla and the receptionist stepped out of the way as the injured man was carefully lifted onto the gurney.

As the ambulance sped away, Kayla turned to Betty. "Thanks for your help. You did a great job."

"You did all the work," Betty replied. "I'm just glad you were here. That man probably would have died otherwise."

"Well, your assistance was invaluable," Kayla insisted. "Well, I guess I need to get to the hospital to fill out some paperwork."

With a wave to Betty, who went back inside, Kayla walked back to her car. It was always a good day when a life was saved.

An hour later, Kayla signed her name to the document, then pushed it across the desk where Dr. Davenport, the current chief of staff at Salem's University Hospital, added his signature with an illegible flourish, then laid the pen down on top of it and smiled at the woman who sat in one of the wing chairs opposite him.

"That takes care of it, Dr. Johnson," he said. "All legal aspects of the situation at the Riverfront Emergency Clinic have been met."

"Thank you, Doctor," Kayla said with relief. "I must thank you for your prompt authorization over the telephone. You took quite a risk. After all, you had no idea who I was or if I was even qualified."

He nodded slowly, his expression solemn. "That is true, but from what I was hearing, there was very little time to verify your credentials. I am very pleased that you were more than qualified for the task. In fact, as soon as I hung up the phone with you, I took the liberty of looking you up on the internet. I'm happy to report that your rating is excellent."

"I strive to achieve the best possible care for my patients," she replied, modestly.

"As should we all."

"Absolutely," Kayla agreed. "I also want to commend the receptionist over at the Clinic. She did an excellent job getting the ambulance there and assisting me in the examining room. There was no one else there to help, and she really came through both for the patient and for me."

"I'll see that she gets a letter of commendation."

"I'm sure she would appreciate that."

"I understand that my personal assistant gave you some grief at first," he said, his direct gaze indicating that he was looking into the matter.

Kayla immediately became uneasy. "Well, we lost a bit of time convincing her that we had a dire emergency on our hands."

"I'm afraid I had told her I didn't want to be disturbed in the meeting, and she failed to understand that emergencies are exempt from that request. I'll speak to her about it. She's young and has a few problems we need to clear up regarding professional behavior."

Kayla nodded, hoping part of that included a talk about the unprofessionalism of snapping and popping gum in the ears of clients and patients. "If I may ask, have you inquired after the patient's condition since he arrived?"

"I have indeed. He will almost certainly require some surgery, but thanks to your prompt action, we will have time to allow the swelling to go down before we make further evaluations. The E.R. physician agreed with your assessment that he would have died at the clinic were it not for your presence there. You took a risk also, I might add. Had he died, there could have been some serious ramifications for both of us."

Kayla offered a slight smile. "I'm afraid I never thought of that."

"Your thoughts lay only with the care of the patient," Davenport said, approvingly. Folding his arms on the edge of his desk, he leaned forward. "Dr. Johnson, as you are most certainly aware, there is a nationwide shortage of qualified medical professionals at this time, University Hospital included. It seems more and more students today are more interested in useless degrees in obscure fields rather than in medicine. There is always a position here for a dedicated doctor such as yourself. I would consider it an honor if you would consider coming to work for us."

Surprised, Kayla looked at him for several moments, before her eyes drifted to the framed photograph of Dr. Horton, similar to the one that hung on the wall at the clinic. Receiving a job offer was the last thing she had expected out of the meeting with the current Chief of Staff.

Davenport noticed the direction of her gaze. "Tom was an incredible doctor and probably the finest Chief of Staff this hospital has ever seen, and a dear friend of mine. I interned here under his expert guidance many years ago, so it was quite an honor when I was given the position he had so skillfully occupied. You will find his photograph situated in various areas throughout the hospital. No other doctor has enjoyed such tribute, and so well deserved. I understand it was he who offered you the position at the Riverfront Clinic, when you were a nurse practitioner."

"That's true. I'm very flattered by your offer, Dr. Davenport. It's just . . . ."

"I can see I've taken you by surprise," he said with a smile. "The board would be willing to offer you a temporary license to practice here for a while, if you would like to take us for a test drive to see how you like working with us."

"That isn't the problem," she said, quickly. "I'm sure I would love working here. It's just that there are many . . . complications in my life right now, not the least of which is a sixteen year old daughter who is in high school and has friends that she may not want to leave. I must consider her before I could make such a drastic change in our lives."

"Of course you must. I understand completely, Doctor, but the offer still stands. There are also benefits to consider. The cost of living here is much lower, as is the crime rate. I understand the crime rate in Los Angeles is higher than the national average. With a daughter, that must concern you."

"That's true," Kayla admitted, thinking about the gang that had disrupted the emergency room. "It does concern me, but there are precautions to prevent becoming a victim. Although I must say, I do see that bad side in the number of crime victims I see at the hospital. But all communities have crimes, including Salem. I've never been one to run from a challenge."

Davenport chuckled. "I can see that, and that is exactly what impresses me with you. Please think on it for a while, Dr. Johnson. There is no rush. The offer remains open for as long as it takes. You may even go back to L.A. until your daughter graduates, and you can return then. The position will still be here for you."

"That is very generous of you," Kayla said. "More than generous."

"Not at all. Quite selfish of me, in fact. I want you on my staff, and I'm willing to wait for it. So please, think about it and let me know when you've decided."

"I will." They stood up and extended their hands over his desk for a handshake. "I'll be in touch."

She left the office, then proceeded down the corridor toward the elevator that would take her to the ground floor. After pressing the down button, she turned to view the circular reception desk where a young woman efficiently handled phone calls and correspondence directed to the various staff members whose officers were located on that floor. She was on the telephone, expertly screening a call, while multi-tasking by alphabetizing a stack of folders. There had been a time when Kayla had known the names of most of the hospital's employees, and the many new faces she had seen since entering the building had been a stark reminder of how long she had been away.

It seemed ironic that history was repeating itself. Once again, upon returning to Salem for a visit, she had been given a job offer. This time, however, there were unique circumstances, not the least of which was wondering if she would be emotionally able to work inside the hospital in which Steve had died.

Behind her, the elevator door slid open and she waited for several people to exit the car before stepping into it. As the doors slid closed again, she knew it would be nice to be home in Salem again, should she accept the offer.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Vaughn stood silently at the window of his home in Kettering, gazing across the dark lawn as he reflected on the conversation with his employer only moments before. The telephone call had not gone well, leaving him with a decidedly uneasy feeling, as if an unspoken threat had been delivered in the chilling silence that had followed his news that Johnson had escaped. It had been the most difficult call he had ever made, made that much worse by the fact that he had gotten his very powerful benefactor out of bed.

The news had been only marginally mitigated by the report from Jennings that the van had been located and that Johnson was now on foot, assuring that he had not yet reached his destination, but it had not lessened the irritation his employer felt toward him.

There had been no outburst, no tirade, only an ominous hush that was far worse. The man who paid Vaughn's salary and from whom he took his orders was always in personal control of himself and everyone around him, and the former I.S.A. agent was under no illusions regarding the deadly nature that often exhibited itself when he did not get the results he desired.

In a calm voice that was more chilling than the expected diatribe, his employer had reminded him of how patient he had been over the years waiting for Johnson to recover from the I.S.A. drug that had first nearly killed him, and then had left him in a catatonic state. He had been forced to wait additional years while Johnson recovered his mental acuity enough to even remember his name. And then, even when he was at long last fully recovered, both physically and mentally, he had somehow withstood every technique they had used to force him to surrender the information they sought. That they had allowed him to escape was inexcusable.

Vaughn's mouth had gone dry during the quiet admonishment, detecting the unspoken threat behind it: give me results, or else. Struggling to maintain his composure, he had explained that the van had been found and that Johnson was on foot. Bloodhounds had been dispatched with a competent handler to track him down and recapture him. Jennings and Carlton were in their cars, combing the countryside ahead of the dogs in the hopes of finding him.

Assuring him that hope was not lost, Vaughn then revealed his new idea of using the wife, Kayla Johnson, now living in Los Angeles, to help extract the information from him once he was recaptured.

His employer had listened attentively and offered several of his own American operatives to Los Angeles to locate and apprehend Kayla Johnson, a fact which offered Vaughn some relief, for it indicated that he was totally on board with the new idea.

The shadow of fear still hung over him, however. If his attempts failed to capture Johnson, all would be lost. There would be no second chances.

His fingers gripped the window sill so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He must not fail!

* * *

Shane Donovan straightened his tie as he stepped through the polished oak door and into the large office belonging to I.S.A. Principal Commander Dennis Thiessen. Behind him, the efficient, professionally dressed secretary quietly closed the door, assuring total privacy for the two high ranking agents.

Wondering why he had been summoned all the way to the London office for a rare visit, Shane approached the rather rotund, gray haired man who waited behind an oak desk that was equally as polished as the door.

"Chief Donovan," Thiessen said with an amiable smile. Rising from his chair, he shoved his hand across the desk toward his subordinate in a gesture of welcome and camaraderie. "So good to see you again."

"Commander," Shane responded, grasping the hand in a formal yet friendly handshake, and managing to cover his surprise at how much Thiessen had aged since the last time he had seen him. A near fatal injury had left the former field agent with a permanent limp and had resulted in his reassignment to a desk job, and he had quickly risen to the top of management. The commander had graduated from training three years ahead of Shane, but the stress of the job and the inactivity had taken a toll. As Shane observed the round face, thickened waist, and gray hair, he saw little of the outstanding field agent he had once been.

Thiessen did not notice his subordinate's quiet appraisal, another byproduct of the safe desk job that had eroded his once sharp observations, and he gestured to an easy chair in front of his desk, indicating that was where he should sit. "Have a seat, please," he beckoned, then his hand went to the phone, his finger tip resting on the intercom link to the secretary's desk, ready to press it for assistance. "Can Marcia bring you a cup of coffee?"

"No, I'm fine," Shane said, sinking into the plush cushion of the chair. His laptop computer, his constant companion in this new era of information, was placed with his briefcase on the matching chair beside him.

Thiessen sat down in his soft swivel chair and folded his arms on the desktop, leaning slightly forward. "I know you've traveled a long way, so I'll get right to the point. I'm sure you must be wondering why I summoned you here."

"It did cross my mind," Shane admitted. "It isn't often that I'm called to the London offices. As you know, I've been a field agent for many years and continue to act in that capacity, but lately, I've been primarily working and conducting my case research from home, in my I.S.A. room. London is too long a drive to make as frequently as I once did. Age is catching up to me, I suppose," he added with a wry smile.

"I understand completely. Comes to us all, I'm afraid. I apologize for dragging you all the way to London, especially on such short notice, but it was necessary that this meeting be conducted in person. It is too delicate a matter to discuss on the phone."

Shane felt the familiar inner rush of interest that always came with new assignments. "You have an assignment for me," he guessed.

"Yes, but not one that I am happy to authorize, and not of the type that have typically been assigned to you. I chose you because you are the best in your field. I've been following your career for the last 25 years, Chief Donovan. Your record with the I.S.A. is impeccable. Most impressive. You're the type of man I know I can trust with a very delicate investigative project."

"Thank you," Shane said, mildly uncomfortable with the praise. "I was just doing my job, though."

"And doing it well." He gave a regretful sigh. "You're 'old school', back when honor and integrity and good hard work actually meant something. These days, it seems we have to deal all too often with rogues in our midst."

"Well, there have always been rogues, Commander. There are in every organization, and I suppose there always have been."

"That's true, but back in the old days, it seemed they were fewer and farther between. You, especially, have always walked the straight and narrow, as it were, and that is the kind of dedication I need for this assignment; a man who can be inconspicuous and who has a history of sound instincts and good judgment. May I call you Shane?"

Shane nodded. "Certainly."

"Call me Dennis. At our mutual age, I'm not much on formalities. It would be different if you were a kid making his way up through the ranks, but we're both high ranking officers only a few years apart, and those titles just tend to get in the way. The sad truth is, Shane, it appears we may have a thief in our midst, possibly a rogue agent who has stolen some very sensitive I.S.A. apparatus. And if this person is in fact stealing I.S.A. secrets and devices, then I can only wonder for what purpose he or she plans to use them."

A frown crossed Shane's handsome face. "The implications of that could be very serious," he agreed. "Do you have an idea who this person might be?"

"None, but it would make sense that he is probably working right out of this very office. This is where the items are developed and tested, catalogued, stored, and eventually distributed to the other offices and agents around the world."

"As I recall, the organization maintains a very large inventory of I.S.A. developed items. You're certain, then, that these items have been stolen, rather than misplaced?"

"Absolutely positive. This discrepancy came to light during a recent inventory of some of our most highly classified devices, but I have reason to suspect that the covert pilfering has been going on for some time. I first became aware of this situation last week, when I went into the storeroom looking for a particular item, a tranquilizer dart rifle, an item which the current inventory sheet indicated we should have available. Five, to be exact. There are only two. Three are missing."

"That is not an item that is typically used for ordinary I.S.A. projects."

"No, and I suspect that is why the discrepancy did not come to light until I went searching for one to ship to an agent in Kenya on another project."

Shane leaned back in his chair and was quiet for several moments, considering other alternatives to theft. "Is there any chance that this could be a possible clerical error?" he suggested. "Most businesses discover occasional discrepancies in inventory, where someone failing to properly log an item out or jotted down the wrong number, such as a seven instead of a nine, or even inverted a pair of numbers. Simple human error."

"I might accept that if it was only one item or if two different items had come up appropriately short and long, but that was not the case. As you are aware, our record keeping regarding our I.S.A. devices is very stringent with every effort devoted to total accuracy. Every item is checked out and signed for by the recipient. In fact, there has never been a discrepancy of this nature, so it is quite remarkable that multiple quantities of several different items in the same category have come up short."

"What kind of devices are we talking about?" Shane asked.

"Highly classified security devices and surveillance devices: In the security category, we are missing two pressure sensors, which are typically used for front and rear entrances, one wireless laser sensor, three door alarms, all of which were designed exclusively according to I.S.A. specifications. In the surveillance category, we are missing two night vision binoculars and one extremely classified listening device, capable of tuning in telephone conversations. And, of course, possibly the most disturbing, are the three missing tranquilizer rifles along with the darts. It is my belief that the darts have been taken a few at a time over an extended period. That is a lot of missing items, all of them from the same category. Security. Oh, I know," he added, quickly with a dismissive wave of his hand when he sensed that Shane was about to speak. "It sounds like someone in our agency is concerned about intrusion, but items of this nature are typically passed out to agents with discretion if they are warranted. All an agent has to do is make the request and fill out the paperwork." He gestured toward Shane. "You know this yourself. I've heard that your home is quite a stronghold!"

"A necessity, I'm afraid," Shane acknowledged. "I detest living in a technological fortress, but I've been a target of some pretty bad men over the years."

"As have a number of us. There is an element of danger in our chosen profession. That is why these devices were developed; to protect our agents, informants, and those coming under our protection for whatever reason. An agent who required them for legitimate purposes would not be denied, so there is simply no reason for anyone to steal them. We are gravely concerned that whoever took them may be selling them on the black market."

"Could it have been an outside individual? Someone familiar with our operations and high tech security?"

"I considered that, but I think it's highly unlikely. These items are kept in a secure room inside this building, and very few people have the security code. I don't think an outsider could have gotten access to the building, much less the storeroom, without attracting attention to themselves."

Shane fell silent for several moments, bringing an image to mind of the I.S.A. storeroom, the top-secret vault where all the high-tech apparatus were kept, waiting to be issued to the agents who required them. It had been a long time since he had been inside it, but he doubted it had changed much.

Thiessen waited patiently, understanding that Shane was already pondering the problem.

"I haven't been there in more than ten years, but as I recall," Shane said, "there is a small, barely detectable security camera installed directly across from the door to the storeroom. Is it still in operation? And if so, have you reviewed the tapes?"

Thiessen nodded, approvingly. "That's why I wanted you on this case. Your attention to detail is impeccable. Yes, the camera is still there, and I have begun the process of reviewing the tapes, but as you can imagine, it is a very time consuming job, since it records continuously, the images going to a series of recording devices, so that not a moment is lost." He sighed. "So far, everyone who entered that room were authorized personnel, and none of them could be seen carrying anything that was not legitimately signed for."

"Most of the items you mentioned are small and could have easily been carried out in pockets or tucked inside a shirt," Shane pointed out.

"That is true. And the dart rifles could have been carried out in cases designed for other items, or even disassembled and carried out in easier to conceal pieces."

"How far back have you gone in the tapes so far?"

"Not far, I'm afraid. It is a very daunting task, and if the theft goes back as far as I suspect it does, it's going to be very hard to find."

Shane nodded, thoughtfully. "Yes, without an approximate day or time when the theft occurred, the tapes are probably useless. Either the thief is very brazen, or he's someone who would never raise eyebrows by entering the room, someone with legitimate reasons for being there."

"That is what I suspect, and that is why I consider it so disturbing. All of our agents are trained and vetted before they are permitted access to classified areas."

"It could still be an outside job," Shane said, thoughtfully. "You haven't gotten far on the tapes, so there is no telling what is on the ones going farther back. How many people have access to the security code?"

"Very few; perhaps five agents total including myself. We also change the code periodically to reduce the chances that someone else might decipher it."

"Have these other four agents been interviewed?" Shane asked.

"No. Since they have to be considered among our top suspects, I didn't want to tip off the perpetrator that we're on to him, at least until the investigation warrants it. I want to catch him, not send him into hiding."

"How often are the items inventoried?"

"We conduct a full inventory every six months, and I must add that the agents conducting the inventory are not part of the five agents who have the code. We hoped having others in that function would discourage any theft by those with the code. They must also be considered suspect, since the inventory process provides them with opportunity."

Shane withdrew a pad from his lapel pocket and jotted down some notes. "You indicated your belief that the theft has gone on for some time. Has a discrepancy occurred before this?"

"No. I must admit that past inventories have never revealed a discrepancy, but I believe they were there." In response to Shane's quizzical expression, he said, "Let me explain. I conducted a bit of an investigation of my own and discovered that one of the items that are missing has been replaced over the years by a newer, more serviceable model. Our procedure is that whenever a replacement item is issued, the older versions are recalled and destroyed. That assures that all of our agents have the most updated model at all times. However, the usual recall was not done. It appears that someone has altered the records on the computer, removing them from the recall list."

"To cover up the theft of those original items," Shane guessed.

"Exactly. I wouldn't have even known about that, except that I happened to have a paper copy of the list."

"How is it that the discrepancy never turned up on the regular inventories?"

"It is my belief that each time an inventory is conducted, someone must be falsifying the results, presumably the same individual who altered the recall records. That is the only explanation I have, and it is a very disturbing one at that. As you know, many of our tools are capable of creating a devastating security risk should they fall into the wrong hands. We must locate those items and find out who took them and for what purpose. That is where you come in. I know of no better man for the assignment."

"Have you notified Scotland Yard or the National Crime Agency that we've had a security breach?" Shane asked. "Those missing items could be used for terrorist activities."

Thiessen shook his head. "Scotland Yard and the NCA are skeptical enough of our presence here. Our arsenal and surveillance devices make them especially nervous, and if word of this gets out, it is highly like that Parliament will insist on taking an oversight role into our internal affairs. That would complicate sensitive cases."

Shane nodded in agreement. Theirs was a highly operational international force, but it could only function effectively without the interference of the respective governments of the countries it encompassed. That was because they had to occasionally step across the line of what might be referred to as legal and ethical practices. Shane didn't like it, but that was the way it was.

"No," Thiessen continued. "We must try to clean up this mess on our own first, without bringing in law enforcement or government agencies. The only reason we're so low on their radar at this point is because we've been so successful at policing ourselves over the years through careful vetting."

"Obviously, we failed somewhere along the line," Shane pointed out.

"True enough, but decades of good agents would be judged by the bad behavior of a few. Resolving issues such as this are part of our task." He spread his hands, silent admission to his own grave concerns regarding the uses of the stolen devices. "If we fail in our investigations to bring this matter to a swift and satisfactory resolve, then we will have no choice but report it to the appropriate agencies, but for now, we will seek to conclude this matter on our own."

Shane nodded again. "All right. I will need copies of all the requisition forms of everyone who has ever checked out these items, plus any documentation of their return. Each and every transaction. I'll also need serial numbers of the missing units and those that are still on the shelf. And I'll need the name of everyone who has access to the room and the authority to distribute them, plus the name of every person who has ever been involved in the inventory process, past and present."

"You'll have it. What else?"

"I also want the names of people who might not ordinarily be considered a risk, but who might be in a position to notice things they should not, such as janitorial personnel, cafeteria delivery, that sort of thing."

Dennis nodded, slowly. "You're thinking someone might have written a code on a memo pad that was carelessly left in the open."

"Or left information up on their computer screen. It's been known to happen, and although I rather doubt that is the case here, I want to cover all bases. Do agents and employees still order lunch delivered from the cafeteria and the deli across the street?" Shane asked.

"Why, yes, of course. It's very popular among our agents."

Shane smiled. "I remember; their food is delicious. As I recall, they have people employed in just that capacity: delivery."

"Even in such an unlikely case, that person still would not be able to falsify the records. They would need computer clearance."

"Hackers tend to find their own clearance, and are often in and out before they're noticed. One of the hazards of having computers connected to the internet. Could a person in a seemingly insignificant job simply be posing in that position as delivery boy in order gain knowledge about the organization's activities?" Shane said, presenting a question that Dennis had not considered.

Thiessen shrugged. "I suppose it's possible, but we have filters, with high-tech anti-spyware and monitoring software of our own design, the best in the business."

"Computer hackers can do pretty much anything they want; obtain password, bypass filters and anti-spyware, elude monitoring software, and move about in the computer database without detection. What better cover than a janitor or a delivery person?"

Dennis leaned back in his chair, looking very satisfied. "That is why I called you in on this. You think of things I would not. I'll make sure you have anything and everything you need, including the names of the cafeteria and deli delivery people."

"As I said, I'm not convinced that is the case, but think on it and let me know if there are any other people, either here or with other companies, who are permitted into classified or sensitive areas. Those people would require a background check and a visitor's pass, would they not?"

"Yes, and that should be simple enough to track down. Anything else?"

Shane read through his notes, pondered the question for a moment, then shook his head. "Not at the moment. I'm certain I will have questions down the line, though. How is the best way to get in touch with you without tipping off anyone that we are working on an internal case?"

Dennis reached into his lapel pocket and withdrew a USB flash drive and held it up for Shane to see. "I've already compiled much of the information you requested and saved it to this in anticipation of your needs. My private phone number is in a file on this drive as well, so if there is anything else you require, give me a call and I will have it sent to you immediately."

"Is your number a secure line?"

"Yes."

He passed the object across the desk, and Shane inserted it into his own lapel pocket.

"I'll get the rest of the information you requested saved to another USB drive and have it couriered to your house."

"Make certain it's someone you trust," Shane cautioned. "Since I rarely come to London, it would probably be a good idea if I not come here again. If anyone asks why I was here, just say that I was due for a personnel review, or something. You may want to do the paperwork on that to deter anyone who might be inclined to look it up."

Dennis nodded. "Good idea. I certainly don't want to tip off the perpetrator that we're on to his scheme."

"Is anyone outside this room aware that there is a discrepancy in the inventory?"

"No. I asked two trusted agents to conduct the special inventory at my request, but they don't know that it turned up a discrepancy. This inventory was conducted nocturnally, after the rest of the staff had retired for the evening. Even the janitors had gone home for the night, so there was no one else around to know we were doing it. Since previous inventories had failed to turn up any discrepancies, I wanted this one conducted without the knowledge of those who are in charge of maintaining the supply room or the agents who normally conduct the inventories. No one else in the organization is aware of it."

Shane nodded his approval. "Good idea. And you trust these two agents?"

"Impeccably. They are two of my most trusted agents, aside from you, and they reported their findings directly to me."

Shane gazed at him a few moments longer. Without the identities of the two agents, it was difficult for him to assess their trustworthiness, but Thiessen appeared totally satisfied. "I will also require their names for a background check, just to be sure."

Thiessen was not offended. "I anticipated that. Their names are on the USB drive."

"All right, then. Is there anything else?"

"Nothing I can think of right away."

"I have enough to get started, but send me the other USB drive when you have it prepared. I'll be in touch."

* * *

Three humans and two large red-brown dogs made their way across the rolling green pastureland of a lush valley. Restrained by harnesses and long leashes, the dogs, with their muzzles to the ground, were engaged in the act of tracking a specified prey. Occasionally one of them lifted its head to bay, expressing its excitement over the hunt. For all their placid, almost lazy appearance, the bloodhounds were eager and energetic, straining against their harnesses and forcing their handler to restrain them to prevent them from moving too far ahead.

Presenting a low profile to avoid being seen against the horizon, Steve lay flat on his belly at the summit of a gently sloping ridge, his chin resting on his folded arms, and quietly observed the scene in the valley he had just crossed. From his position, he could see for miles across the patterned landscape, but the view was troubling. It did not take any stretch of the imagination to realize that they were following his trail. Vaughn must have sent them to the disabled van to pick up his trail. And they were much nearer than he would have expected. Exhaustion was slowing him down.

He could not see the faces of the men from that distance, but his sharp distance-vision was excellent, and he was almost certain that one of them was carrying something; one of those cursed dart rifles, he suspected. That meant that while one of them was most likely a dog handler, the other two were almost certainly Carlton and Harding. Jennings, he knew, was probably driving a vehicle nearby.

With a sigh, he lowered his forehead onto his arms and closed his eyes, fighting the sensation of hopelessness that seeped into his weary mind and covered him like a dark blanket of despair. No matter how fast he traveled, he could never outrun the powerful noses of the bloodhounds.

He had to warn Kayla.

Motivated by the thought of his wife and the danger she was in, he lifted his head again and monitored the progress of the trackers. He would not lie there and wait for them to catch him. With no weapons to use in his defense, he would be unable to fight them off should they catch up with him. They would simply shoot him with the dart gun, and he would wake up in captivity again.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The tall white spire of St. Luke's Catholic Church glistened in the sunshine above the clusters of trees that lined the streets of the shady residential neighborhood not far from the pub. It was the church in which the Brady family had worshipped since Shawn's arrival in Salem, where many of them had been married, and where many of their children had been baptized. It was also a source of comfort for the bereaved, and Kayla remembered praying there for her late husband.

Her destination, however, was not the church. Her objective was the cemetery behind it, the place where Steve had been buried, and Kayla felt a lump rise in her throat as she neared it, wondering how she could have allowed fifteen years to pass without visiting the grave of the man she loved so dearly.

Stephanie sat in the passenger seat, looking out the window, her body slumped in a rather sullen posture. Kayla knew that taking a trip to the cemetery was not something her daughter wanted to do. Ever since their arrival, Stephanie had wanted to spend every waking hour with her cousin, Jeannie, but this trip to the cemetery was important for both of them. Doing what was right was part of growing up.

As she neared the church, Kayla turned onto a side street for closer access, then flipped on her blinker and slowed to make the turn onto the narrow road that wound its way through the well-maintained grounds of the graveyard. The black SUV that had been following her, also turned on its blinker and followed her inside, but she paid little notice and felt no alarm by its presence. Many people in the area had relatives buried at St. Luke's. Still, she was aware of it as she drove slowly along the narrow cemetery road and parked the car as near to Steve's grave as she could.

Once stopped against the grassy turf, she popped the trunk open using the interior release button, then opened her door and stepped out. The sound of a car engine alerted her that the SUV that had followed her was approaching, so she closed the door and stood close to it to give the other driver plenty of room to pass.

Instead of moving on past her, the SUV slowed, and it appeared that he intended to stop when he was even with her. Even though the windows were tinted, preventing her from seeing his features, she sensed that he was looking at her intently, scrutinizing her in a way that made her uncomfortable. It was close, so close that she had to press her body firmly against the rental car to avoid being brushed aside by the moving vehicle. With her car's rear view mirror on her right and the SUV's mirror on her left, she realized with a jolt that she was effectively pinned in.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. "You have me pinned in!"

Although she could not see details through the tinted windows, she sensed movement inside the vehicle, and thought the person was picking something up that was on the seat. Curiously, he seemed to be shifting toward the passenger side window.

Apprehensively, Kayla glanced at the other people who were in the cemetery, instinctively seeking the safety of numbers, but no one was near enough to help her if the driver made an aggressive or threatening gesture toward her. For several alarming moments, she stared at the window as it started to slide down, until finally the polite honk of the car directly behind the SUV convinced him to move away.

She thought she heard a muffled curse from inside the SUV, and the window immediate moved back up, preventing her from getting a good look at the driver as he simultaneously sped past, the mirror that had pinned her in grazed her arm. Then, accelerating too fast for the cemetery's speed limits, the black SUV followed the curving road to the exit and pulled out on to the street.

As the small economy car went past her, Kayla's eyes lingered on the SUV, watching it until it disappeared from view. The incident was odd, and her intuition told her that for some inexplicable reason, the driver had been interested in her.

"Man, he was close to you!" Stephanie exclaimed. She had stepped out of the car onto the grassy bank, and had watched the incident over the top of the car.

The car that had honked at the offending driver stopped beside her at a safer distance, window rolled down. "Hey, are you okay? It looked like he had you deliberately pinned against your car."

"I think maybe he did," she replied, shakily. "I'm not sure what he wanted though. Did you happen to get his license number?"

"No, it was covered with mud."

"In dry weather," Kayla said, experiencing a cold sensation in the pit of her stomach. He would have had to deliberately mix the mud to wipe on the plates.

"Well, whatever he wanted, he seems to be gone now. You might want to report this to the police, though, and keep a sharp eye out in case he returns."

"I will. Thank you."

With a wave, the other driver moved on, and Kayla, although concerned, set it aside for the moment. Whatever he had been thinking, it was over now, and her mind moved ahead to her visit to the grave of her husband. Moving to the back of the car, she lifted the trunk lid and retrieved the spray of flowers, then closed it and walked into the graveyard toward the location of Steve's grave.

Stephanie followed, lagging behind, feeling very uncomfortable at the sight of the grave markers that recorded the births and deaths of generations of Salem residents. As she walked, she watched her mother as she moved between the rows of headstones, the stiff set of her back indicating that she was no more comfortable being there than she was.

Stephanie did not blame her, and a painful ache came to her throat when she saw her mother stop beside a granite marker that was nestled snugly in the grassy turf. The name STEVEN EARL JOHNSON was etched in bold letters, along with the date of his birth and the date of his death.

Kneeling beside it, Kayla arranged the spray in front of the stone, carefully bending back into place any stems that had been displaced during the ride in the car trunk.

Stephanie stood silently and watched as her mother primped over the flowers, and when she was satisfied, she crossed herself reverently. The girl's arms were folded, and to any passerby, she might have appeared defiant, but the truth was that all the feelings of teenage rebelliousness and resentment at being there had drained out of her as she gazed at the headstone bearing the name of her father.

She had been raised with the pictures, portraits, and the videos that her mother had converted to DVD, many of them including her as an infant, and all irrefutable evidence that he had existed, yet somehow, seeing his name carved in the gray granite drove home her own personal loss, a loss she had felt her entire life, but which had never affected her so strongly as it did in that moment.

Tears burned behind her eyes and streamed down her face. She swiped at them repeatedly and her chest hitched with suppressed sobs, but they kept coming until finally she turned her back and walked away several paces, trying to regain her composure.

Kayla completed her prayer and stood up again, noticing that Stephanie had moved away, and angered at what appeared to be a display of teenaged insolence. Closing the distance between them, she grasped her daughter by the shoulder and turned her around, intending to give her a good scolding, but the sight of the girl's tear streaked face took her by surprise.

"Stephanie," she said, her voice startled by the girl's unexpected reaction.

Stephanie clutched her fist against her chest, her youthful face contorted with emotion. "I'm sorry, Mom. I feel like I have this big hole in my heart," she said, her voice choked with sobs. "Like there is something missing inside!" She wiped her cheeks again with her hand, and asked, "How can I miss someone I never even knew?"

"You knew him, Steph," Kayla told her, her hand gently caressing her daughter's cheek. "You don't remember, of course, but I think you felt his love, and that's what you're missing."

"Why did he have to die?"

"He was murdered, sweetheart. He was taken from us by a murderer."

"Why were they never punished?"

Kayla sighed. How often she had asked that question herself! "We tried to bring them to justice, but they were just too powerful."

Stephanie wiped the rears from her cheeks. "I was over at my friend Kristen's house once when her dad came home from work, and he hugged her. She seemed embarrassed by it, but I remember watching, and thinking how I would give almost anything to know what it feels like to be hugged by my dad."

Stephanie's voice broke slightly as she spoke the last sentence, and Kayla drew her comfortingly into her arms.

"Oh, baby, I'm so sorry," she crooned. "I wish you could feel that too. I always felt so safe in his arms, and I know you would have too."

"It just isn't fair," Stephanie said, her voice muffled against her mother's shoulder.

"No, it isn't fair," Kayla agreed. "But that's life, and life isn't fair. Sometimes, bad things happen to good people."

Stephanie remained in Kayla's embrace for several moments before she drew away, wiping the moisture from her cheeks. Self-consciously, her eyes darted to the other people in the cemetery, hoping no one was staring at her. No one was watching, their gazes discreetly turned away, but Stephanie felt that they were aware of her grief.

Kayla noticed the direction of her fleeting looks, and understood. "It's all right to be upset," she told her, gently. "Each one of those people is here because they lost a loved one too, and I'm sure they understand completely."

"I know. It just feels different being here by his grave, knowing that he's right here." She turned her head, glancing at the granite marker bearing his name. "Before, he was just pictures in a frame or an image on your old videos. I just feel like I've been cheated out of getting to know him, you know? You've been a terrific mom, and I'm not trying to take anything away from that at all, but I've seen the way Grandpa loves you and I know he loves me too, but I've always known that my father should have been here, too." She sniffed and wiped her cheek again. "When I was little, I used to lie in bed and make up little stories about him."

Kayla smiled. "What kind of stories?"

"Sometimes I would imagine that he was tucking me into bed, or I would read my Rudolph picture-book at Christmas and imagine that he was reading it to me. Sometimes when we would go to the parade, I'd see fathers lifting their kids up on their shoulders so they could see over the crowd, and I'd imagine how he might do the same thing for me. I thought it would be so cool." She shrugged and gave an embarrassed smile. "Just silly little things like that."

"It isn't silly at all. Those are all things he wanted to do, and would have done had he lived. He was totally into fatherhood, and I'm sure he would have spoiled you mercilessly."

Stephanie managed a weak smile. "Really?"

"Absolutely. He wasn't one of those guys who just turn the child-rearing over to the mother. He wanted to experience the whole package, and while he was alive he did everything. He walked you when you came down with colic in the middle of the night, and he cuddled you against his chest when you cried. He sang silly songs to you and made goofy faces to make you laugh. He loved hearing you laugh."

"Mom, please!"

"And he fed you, and sometimes he just stood at your crib and watched you sleep, marveling at how beautiful you were," Kayla continued. She looked away, blinking away the tears that were beginning to burn again. "There was no father who loved his daughter more than Steve loved you."

Several moments of silence passed between them as each one thought about Steve Johnson and their loss. Stephanie had never felt the absence of her father in her life more profoundly than she did at that moment, yet at the same time she felt comforted by her mother's reminiscences of his love for them.

"Tell me more about him," she said.

Kayla smiled. "I've told you about him your whole life."

"Yeah, but those were things he did. I want to know the little things he felt and liked. Like what was his favorite color? What was his favorite food? What was his favorite TV show? What kind of music did he like? Did he prefer books or movies?"

"So many questions! All right, let's sit down and I'll tell you about all those things."

Moving to a nearby bench that was still within sight of the grave, they sat down to talk, unaware that the black SUV had returned and was parked on a side street where the driver could see the woman and her daughter, waiting for a moment of opportunity when he could strike.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

It was so quiet in the Brady living room above the Pub that Kayla could hear the clock on the wall ticking away the seconds with a steady beat. Below her feet, she knew the pub was filled nearly to capacity with the diners who filled the booths, tables, and bar stools, enjoying Caroline's famous clam chowder, or various sandwiches and soups, but the solid floor and thick insulation prevented the hustle and bustle from disturbing the private family areas.

Although she couldn't see the dining room, she could easily imagine it in her mind, for she had passed through it only minutes before, returning from her trip to the cemetery with Stephanie. Her daughter, eager to do something cheerful to counter the sorrow and depression of the visit to her father's grave, had immediately sought out Jeannie, and Kimberly had bravely volunteered to take the girls to Torelli's for pizza and then to a movie, providing Kayla with some time to herself. On her way through the dining room to go upstairs to her room, Caroline had stopped her, urging her to stay and have something for lunch, but she had declined, seeking a few minutes to herself while she sorted through her thoughts.

Leaning back in her easy chair, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. She had only been in Salem for a few days, but she was already toying with the idea of remaining longer than she had originally intended. The one week leave she had requested would not be sufficient time to enjoy being back home, but how to broach the subject with Gary Payne was difficult, for she was already feeling the pressure that she had left her employer shorthanded. She also knew that she risked losing her job if she stayed away too long. Gary needed a doctor on the job, and if she was not there to do it, she understood that had would be forced to replace her.

She did not fault him for that. Her good work ethic reminded her that the hospital had patients who needed attention, and curiously, she did not experience a sense of panic or impending doom at the prospect of being replaced. She had not yet mentioned to anyone the job offer she had received from Dr. Davenport knowing how most of the family would react, but the prospect of another job had lessened the concern she would have ordinarily had of losing her position.

Mom and Pop would be thrilled if she accepted the position, she realized with a smile, and had no doubt that if they found out, they would pressure her relentlessly. They had been after her for years to return to Salem. Even Stephanie, who had been so opposed to the trip to Salem in the first place, seemed happy and content, and was getting along well with Jeannie, but Kayla feared she would be less excited about the prospect of remaining in Salem on a permanent basis, especially when Jeannie returned to Seattle with her mother. Oddly, though, Kimberly also seemed reluctant to settle on a date to go back home, and Kayla wondered if she, too, was entertaining the notion of staying. It was nice having the whole family together. Well, except for the missing ones; Steve and Shane.

Salem had been the setting for some of the happiest days of her life, but it had also been the scene of the worse times imaginable. There was no question that she was enjoying the visit with her family, or that she was also enjoying the nostalgic trips down memory lane as she toured the city of her youth.

Opening her eyes again, they settled on the fireplace mantle, where the Bradys had recorded the stages in their family's lives. The pictures were lined up across the long decorative shelf in chronological order, family pictures of their children and grandchildren, some with spouses, others in varying poses at various stages of their lives.

Rising from her chair, Kayla went to it and walked the length of it, quietly observing all the pictures that included Steve.

There were more than she had realized. The large wedding photograph stood beside the wedding photos of her sister and brothers, but there were others: Kayla holding baby Stephanie, the infant's tiny hand clinging to Steve's forefinger while he gazed adoringly at her. picture of Steve and Bo, their arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, both grinning happily at her while she took the picture. An 8 x 10 of Steve lying on his back holding Stephanie in the air above him, the baby grinning happily. And finally anothe snapshot of Steve and Kayla seated on a wide front porch.

Her gaze lingered on this last one. It had been taken by Bo on the front porch of the 19th century house that had been given to them by Nick Corelli, a man Steve had helped at a rough time in his life. She knew she must have a copy of the photograph somewhere, perhaps in one of her photo albums, but it had been a long time since she had seen it; long enough that she had forgotten all about it.

She picked up the picture for a closer look, admiring her late husband's ruggedly handsome face, and remembering the cheerful banter between her husband and her brother. They had been friends, then bitter enemies, and then, eventually, good friends again.

"Kayla?"

Kayla turned toward the doorway and saw her mother standing there drying her hands on a dish towel, smiling at her.

"Things are settling down now, if you'd like to come down for a cup of coffee or something."

"No, you know what?" Kayla said on impulse, returning the picture to its place on the mantle. "I think I'd like to drive out to see the Wyatt house."

Caroline's smile faded. "Are you sure you're ready for that?"

"It isn't only because Steve and I lived there," Kayla assured her. "I loved that house and the history behind it. The story of Emily and Gideon was a fascinating glimpse into the Civil War. I still have Emily's diaries."

Caroline was not fooled, and she nibbled her lip, uneasily, a worried frown passing over her brow. "Kayla, you've been gone for years and now that you're back, it's like you're trying to cram fifteen years into a few days.

"I really want to do this. It's . . . comforting to me somehow, seeing all the places where Steve and I used to go. I thought it would be upsetting, but I've felt closer to him the last few days than I have since . . . . since he's been gone. I guess I'm just not ready to give that up yet."

"Marlena told me that I should let you move at your own pace, but I can't help worrying that you're overdoing it. I just think it would be nice for you to visit with friends instead of . . ."

"Chasing ghosts?" Kayla finished when her mother paused.

"Well, yes, if you want to word it like that. I'm just worried about you."

"I know you are, and I appreciate it. But I'll be fine. I'm really enjoying being back, a lot more than I thought I would."

Caroline was quiet for several moments, studying her daughter's composure. She certainly seemed fine, no red eyes or lingering tears to mar her beautiful face. Maybe she was enjoying her tour of Salem's past. "Well, all right. If you're sure."

Kayla smiled, but there was a forced edge to it when she squeezed her mother's hand in passing. "I'm positive. I'll see you in a bit, okay?"

After fetching her purse and keys from her room, Kayla got in the rental car and drove through the streets of Salem toward the outskirts of town, beyond the housing editions, shopping malls, and movie theaters, toward an older neighborhood where the large houses were spaced farther apart, most with small acreages, some even with horses. Fondly, she recalled that Steve had considered buying Stephanie a pony when she was old enough.

The familiarity of the neighborhood was reassuring, and she found herself wondering who lived in the old house now, if they had repainted, or redecorated. She was therefore totally unprepared for the appearance of the house when she pulled up to the curb across the street.

The Wyatt house was once again abandoned.

Tall grass and weeds grew up on either side of the driveway, the shrubs had not been pruned in years and had nearly taken over the front yard. Following what had apparently been years of neglect and abandonment, the house was weathered and grayed with cracked, peeling paint, and several of the window shutters were askew, hanging from hinges that were coming out of the wood. The windows were boarded up with planks to prevent damage from vagrants. It looked very much as it had looked that long ago day when she and Steve had first toured it. This was an unexpected surprise, for the house had sold only months after she had left Salem. The realtor had sent her the details of the transaction.

She had not intended to intrude upon the current owners. Her intention had been to merely observe the house from the curb, but since it was clearly abandoned, she had no reservations about pulling directly into the long, slightly curving driveway and parking near the walkway. Leaving the car there, she walked up the winding flagstone path to the porch, flanked by knee high grass that had choked out the flower beds and borders. She noticed a few marigolds sticking up bravely through the weeds, probably the distant offspring of the flowers that she and Steve had planted there that last year before his death. Their resilience was both surprising and comforting, life renewing itself. When she reached the porch, she carefully walked up the steps.

After the failure of his previous attempt to abduct Kayla Johnson, the driver of the black SUV had followed at a distance safe enough to avoid her detection, and when he saw her pull into the driveway of the abandoned house, he glanced quickly around, looking for potential witnesses. The lots were large with plenty of space and foliage between them, and he observed no one nearby to see what he anticipated as a swift abduction. However, before he could execute the turn into the driveway behind her, he saw a police cruiser approaching slowly from the opposite direction, apparently on the lookout for suspicious behavior in the rather affluent neighborhood.

Quickly, the SUV's driver aborted the turn, opting to drive farther down the street in search of a place to turn around once the police officer had moved on. The cruiser passed him, the officer barely glancing at him at they came within feet of each other, and as he watched in the rear view mirror, he saw the cruiser's brake light applied when he noticed the car in the driveway of the abandoned house.

Unaware that she was under scrutiny from multiple sources, Kayla crossed the porch to the front door, stroking her hand across the smooth wood arm of the porch swing where she and Steve had spent many summer evenings watching the fireflies and looking at the stars, planning their future and sharing the events of their day. It swayed slightly beneath her hand, the chains creaking on their supports, and her eyes lingered on it wistfully, savoring those pleasant memories and longing for what could never be. Then she reached for the doorknob and her hand closed around it, hoping it would be unlocked as Steve's old apartment had been. This time, however, she was confronted by the resistance of a secure lock, denying her access.

Undaunted by her inability to enter her old home, she sidestepped to the window that was positioned beside the door, determined to see inside. Like all the other windows, it had been boarded up with weathered grayish planks to protect the glass from rock-throwing youths, but the gaps between the lumber were wide enough in several spots for a very narrow view, so she cupped her hands against the rough wood and pressed her face as close to the dirty window pane as the planks allowed, and peered into the dark depths of the house's interior.

Very little daylight was able to find its way inside, giving the foyer a very dark and gloomy appearance, but she could see just well enough to make out the shadowy details of the large foyer, including the staircase that led to the second story. Surprisingly, it appeared that most, if not all, of the furniture she had left behind was still there, but it was impossible to determine their condition in the murky atmosphere. Even more surprising, they had not been covered by protective cloths, leaving them exposed to the dust. Much of it had been original to the house, pieces she and Steve had carefully restored.

Fondly, she recalled how she had picked out a few favored pieces to take with her when she had moved to California, but there was far too much furniture in the large house to take everything with her, so she had left them in the hopes that the next owners could use them. Now, they stood dusty and neglected in the abandoned house, a sad testament to the ravages of time and lack of use.

Frustrated by the poor visibility, she shifted position, hoping for a better view, but her line of vision was severely restricted by the boards across the window, and she wondered if she would find easier access from the backyard.

Determined to gain a better view, she stepped off the porch and started around the side of the house. The grass and weeds were very deep, the hedges were ragged and untrimmed, and she hoped she would not pick up any ticks or chiggers along the way.

As she walked, she checked the windows along the side of the house, but they offered no better view than the front porch, so she continued into the backyard, where she received a surprise.

A large wood deck had been added to the back of the house, presumably by the last owners, and this was met with conflicting emotions by Kayla. While a deck was something she knew she and Steve would have used and enjoyed, it was poorly made and compromised the historical integrity of the old house; a modern addition to a house that was over 150 years old. Whoever had built it clearly had no interest in maintaining any historical value to the old structure.

Placing her hand on the wooden railing, she climbed the deck steps, then paused to observe the workmanship. It was a sloppy job, apparently thrown together in haste, and the lack of wood preserver had left it as weathered and gray as the boards that covered the windows. In fact, in several places, neglect had begun to show if the form of splintering and chipping of the wood. If the house was to be restored, the deck would need to be removed completely and rebuilt.

Most curious were the wide trellises that had been erected on each side of the deck, now overgrown with wild ivy. It was apparent that it had been designed as a privacy screen, preventing the neighbors from viewing the activity on the deck. Shrubs at the property line on each side of the wide side-yard and a stand of trees at the rear of the property had been set in place with that purpose, offering the residents of each home a certain degree of privacy from their neighbors, but apparently the previous owners had not been satisfied with that as the sole protector of their privacy. Kayla could only wonder what they had been doing that they wanted to assure that curious eyes could not see them. With an amused smile, she wondered if they had been nudists. Steve would have found a huge amount of hilarity in that.

Her footsteps made a dull thudding sound on the wood planks as she crossed to the back door, and as she had done on the front porch, she cupped her hands on the boards and pressed her eyes close, trying to see into the kitchen. What she glimpsed was unexpected and disturbing. Cabinet doors were not only left open, but some had been ripped off and were lying on the floor. She shifted position, trying to get a better view of the vandalism.

"Excuse me, ma'am?"

Engrossed in the examination of the house's interior, Kayla had heard no one come up behind her, and the voice spoke so abruptly that she jumped in fright and whirled around with a startled gasp.

A young police officer stood at the foot of the deck steps, and he seemed to be struggling to maintain a professionally straight face in response to her startled expression, but she saw amusement in the crinkling of his eyes.

"I'm sorry to frighten you, ma'am. Are you the owner of this house and property?"

"No, not currently. I did own it at one time with my husband years ago. I just got back into town after a long absence and just wanted to see it again. There's no problem, is there? I mean, no one is living here, right?"

"No, ma'am, but did you see the 'no trespassing' sign down by the road?"

Kayla felt a twinge of guilt, as she always did when she had broken a rule. "Oh. No, I'm sorry. I must have missed that."

"No harm done, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Kayla was not yet ready to go, and stalled for time and information. "Do you have any idea who owns the house now?"

"No, ma'am. Sorry."

"Was there a report filed on the vandalism?"

A troubled frown puckered his brow, and he climbed the steps and moved toward her. "Vandalism? What vandalism?"

"If you look inside, you can see some damage to the cabinets and walls." She stepped aside, allowing him to take her place at the window.

He peered inside between the slats. "Looks like it happened a long time ago," he said. "There's dust all over everything." He turned away from the window, remembering that his initial intention had been to advise a trespasser to leave, not investigate something that had happened a long time earlier. "You shouldn't be back here."

"So you don't know what happened," she asked.

"No, ma'am. I've only been with the force a year, and this looks like it happened a long time ago. I'll have to report this." He flipped open a small notepad and positioned his ballpoint pen over it. "May I have your name, please?"

"Kayla Johnson. Formerly Kayla Brady," she replied, placing emphasis on the "Brady" part, then watched closely for the expected reaction, and was rewarded by his surprised expression when he looked up.

"Brady?"

"Roman Brady is my brother."

_Name dropper,_ Kayla heard Steve's amused voice speak inside her head. _Have you no shame?_

The officer's pen hovered hesitantly over the note pad for several moments, then flipped it closed again, apparently deciding it might not be prudent to treat the chief's sister with suspicion. His discomfort was evident when he gestured toward the steps.

"I think we should vacate the premises, ma'am."

Kayla cast one last, longing gaze at the house, wishing she could go inside, but she knew that idea would not be looked upon with favor by either the officer or by Roman. With a sigh, she led the way down the steps and took several steps back, looking up toward the dark second story window. Her eyes drifted upward, toward the attic where she and Steve had found the old trunk with the Civil War artifacts and Emily's diary. She took another step backward for a better view, and then gasped when she stepped in a hole. A moment later, she was sprawled on the ground, and the tall grass all around her gave the illusion that she was falling into a pit. The officer rushed to her side.

"Are you all right, ma'am?" he asked, kneeling beside her, his face anxious with concern as he helped her into a seated position.

She carefully felt her ankle, which had rolled when she had stepped in the hole, and was relieved to find it only slightly painful. Twisted, but not broken.

"I'm fine," she told him.

Accepting the hand he offered, she was assisted to her feet, but instead of starting toward the car, she looked around the lawn that Steve had kept so meticulously mowed. As with the rest of the yard, the grass was very high, but in the flattened grass where she had fallen, she could clearly see that the hole was fairly significant in size and about six inches deep. Clumps of dirt and rocks scattered around suggested that someone had dug a hole and then hurriedly filled it in without returning all the soil.

Lifting her eyes from the hole, she gazed at the rest of the yard, wondering if there were more holes concealed by the tall grass. No wonder the owners had posted the "no trespassing" sign. They probably feared a lawsuit if someone was hurt.

"Can you walk all right?" the officer asked. "I can help you to the car -"

"I'm fine," Kayla interrupted.

"Are you sure? I could -"

"I'm a doctor, and I'm fine."

To prove her point, she started walking around the corner of the house toward the car. The ankle was only slightly sore, and she was careful not to favor it.

After giving the house a final glance that plainly indicated the structure gave him the creeps, the young officer followed. He waited in his car, allowing Chief Brady's sister to leave first.

Kayla turned the car around, then drove back down the driveway to the road, where she stopped to check for traffic. On the right, there was nothing, but on her left she saw a black vehicle parked against the curb. The distance was too great to be certain, but it looked similar to the black SUV with the tinted windows that had behaved in such a peculiar fashion at the cemetery.

There were many black vehicles on the road. She saw black cars and SUVs every day, but to avoid going past it, she turned to the right and kept her eye on the rear view mirror as she drove toward the police station, hoping it would not follow her.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: When Steve was "murdered" in 1990, Roman Brady was still being played by Drake Hogestyn. Since this is A/U anyway, I didn't want to deal with all the subsequent changes to the Roman and John Black characters that occurred in the years after, so to maintain continuity for Steve's return, and since I liked Drake best in that role anyway, I decided to leave him as Roman. And if my memory serves me, Roman was chief of police in 2006. If my memory is muddled by all the wacky character flips, then just go with the flow, as they say.

Chapter Fifteen

Spooked by the puzzling deterioration and obvious vandalism of Wyatt House and the presence of the black SUV on the curb down the road, Kayla maintained a watchful eye on the rearview mirror as she drove toward the Salem Police Department.

Having never paid much attention to the colors of vehicles on the road, she was surprised by the number of black cars, trucks, and SUVs that occupied the lanes all around her. By the time she turned in to the Salem PD parking lot, she was starting to feel a bit foolish, realizing that there must be dozens, if not hundreds, of black vehicles in and around Salem, and the one she had seen parked on the curb in her old neighborhood was not necessarily the same one that had been involved in the bizarre encounter at the cemetery.

Putting the SUV out of her mind, hoping it was merely a random coincidence, she parked her rental car near the door and walked into the building, intending to quiz Roman on the condition of the house, but as she stepped boldly through the swinging gate that separated the reception lobby from the outer office, as she had always done when visiting her brother, she was met by a large buxom female officer who immediately side-stepped from the receiving counter to physically block her path.

"May I help you?" the woman asked, tersely, her stern tone advising Kayla that she had committed a breach of protocol.

"No, that's okay," Kayla replied in her typical light way, but she made no attempt slip past the woman. She was built like a linebacker, and Kayla had no doubt she would be tackled if she made any attempt to get around her. "I'm just going back to see my brother."

"And your brother is?"

At this point, Kayla realized her mistake. Since returning to Salem, it had become so easy to slip back into her old habits that it never occurred to her that this woman did not know her from Eve. This was the first time she had been at the station since returning to Salem, and while the former desk clerk would have recognized her instantly, and probably would have greeted her enthusiastically, this one glared at her as suspiciously as if she had been a spy or an assassin.

"Oh, you're new here," Kayla said, cheerfully, hoping to put the woman at ease. "I'm Kayla Johnson, Chief Brady's sister."

Her introduction did not yield the same results that it had with the young officer at the abandoned house. In fact, the woman did not seem the least bit impressed. "For your information, I've been here for six years, so no, I am not new."

Kayla was taken aback by the reproachful correction. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound rude. I just meant that you weren't here before I moved away. If you'd just get Roman on the phone, I'm sure he can straighten this out."

"Chief Brady left explicit instructions that he was not to be disturbed. If you'll come back later, I'm sure he'll be able to see you another time. Or, if you want to leave your name and number, I can have him call you."

Kayla, who was unaccustomed to losing battles of will, pondered this for a moment. She seriously doubted that Roman was so busy that he would refuse to see his sister, but clearly this woman had no intention of allowing her into the business offices of the station.

"Well, if you'll let him know I'm here, I'll just wait, then."

"Suit yourself, but it could be a while."

Temporarily foiled, Kayla went back through the swinging gate to the lobby area, and took a seat on the scuffed wooden bench by the door. The woman, Officer Duffy, according to her name plate, returned to her position at the receiving desk, and after several minutes passed, Kayla realized that the desk officer intended to notify Roman of her presence in her own time.

Refusing to concede defeat, she opened her purse, withdrew her cell phone, and scrolled down the list of numbers until she found and selected Roman's private line. It was picked up after several rings.

"Brady."

"Hey, Roman, it's Kayla," she said cheerfully, making sure her voice was loud enough for Officer Duffy to hear. Glancing up, she caught the defeated expression on the woman's face behind the counter, and felt a wicked sense of triumph. "Look, I know you're busy, but I wondered if you could spare a few minutes for your sister. I have something I need to talk to you about. I won't keep you long, I promise."

She heard his chair squeak, and knew he had probably leaned back. Roman tended to be casual in appearance, and knew that she would find him wearing jeans. She could hear the smile in his voice when he said, "You know I can always spare a few minutes for you, Kay. How soon can you be here?"

"Actually, I'm in the lobby, but I was told you couldn't be disturbed."

He gave a low chuckle, and she decided he had encountered this before. "I've somehow accumulated a mountain of paperwork, so I told the front desk I didn't want to be disturbed for a while. Officer Duffy is very good at her job, but she has some trouble distinguishing between the people I don't want to see and those that I do. I'll come up and get you."

"Thanks."

Triumphantly, she snapped her phone shut and returned it to her purse, trying not to look too smug when Officer Duffy met her eye briefly before returning to her work.

A few minutes later, her eldest sibling, Roman, stepped through the door that separated the outer office from the detective offices, and opened the swinging gate for her. As expected, he was dressed in jeans and a casual button-down shirt, with a tie at the neck. As usual, when he was on duty, he wore a shoulder holster. As she stepped through, he gave her a sibling embrace, clearly pleased to see her.

"Hello, sis. You should have let me know you were coming."

"It was a spur of the moment decision," she replied as they started walking toward his office. Several of the uniformed and plain clothed officers looked up from their desks as she passed, and she realized that most of them were new faces, a vivid reminder of her long absence. Only Abe Carver, who was on the phone in his office but waved to her through the open door, was familiar.

When they reached Roman's private office at the far corner of the detective division, he gestured to one of the easy chairs positioned in front of his desk. "Have a seat. Would you like some coffee, or maybe a soda?"

"No, thanks."

Instead of moving to his chair behind his desk, he sat down casually on the corner of the desk, facing her. "So, what's up?"

"I could ask you the same," she countered, and the slightly condemning her tone of voice alerted him to the fact that she was not joking.

He cocked his head, puzzled. "I'm not following you."

"My old house. Steve's and mine. I went out there just now to have a look at it. Why didn't you tell me it had been abandoned and vandalized?"

He spread his hands, a gesture of total bewilderment. "I didn't know it was. Unless there was a homicide involved, that would be a case for the uniform division."

She leaned back in her chair and sighed, disappointed. "I guess I just assumed that you knew everything that goes on around here."

He smiled, amused. "My pedestal isn't that high, sis."

She smiled back. "I don't know about that. It always seemed pretty high to me. I thought maybe you had been keeping it from me for some reason."

He shrugged. "No reason to. I had no idea you were still interested that old house."

She sighed. "I just wanted to see it again. A bit of nostalgia, I guess. I wasn't expecting to find it in that condition. It's awful. Is there any way to find out what happened out there?"

His eyes rested on her fondly for several moments. For all her feminine appearance, Kayla could be as tenacious as a bulldog when she wanted something, and he knew that his younger sister was trying to recapture some of her years with Steve Johnson, a man he had initially had serious reservations about. He had been proven wrong, of course. Theirs had been a good marriage, and he understood how the condition of their old house must be upsetting to her.

Misunderstanding his silence, she said, "I know you're busy, but I really loved that old house. Steve and I had fixed it up, made it into a wonderful place to live. It just bothers me that someone would not only let it fall back into ruin again, but deliberately tear it up. I just want to know what happened."

Like his parents, Roman had experienced some reservations about Kayla returning to Salem, seemingly for the purpose of spending so much time reliving the past, but his wife, Marlena, had suggested that Kayla's tour of the town and revisiting her personal history within it, was actually a good thing, something she needed to do to achieve that elusive thing called "closure", so he did not object to his sister's curiosity about the Wyatt House.

"So tell me about it," he urged. "Maybe I can pull a few files and see if there has been anything reported."

She looked up again, her eyes brightening, ample reward for his offer. "That would be wonderful!"

"With one condition," he added.

"Uh-oh, here it comes," she groaned, teasingly.

"My condition is that you come around more often. We've really missed you, sis."

She smiled. "I've missed you too, and I think that's something I can promise. I've really enjoyed seeing all of you again. I didn't realize how much I loved this town. As for the house, I didn't want to disturb the current owners, so I was just going to look at it from the curb, but when I saw that it was abandoned, I drove on up. I know I was trespassing," she added quickly, "but I didn't think anyone would mind if I just had a look around. When I looked inside through the planks that are nailed across the windows, I could see that the floors, the walls, and the kitchen cabinets had been badly damaged, and there are holes dug all over the back yard. It looks like it's all covered with dust, like it happened a long time ago. I'd just like to know what happened, and why the people who bought it simply abandoned it."

"All right, then. I'll see what I can find out."

"Thanks, Roman. I appreciate it. I'll do something nice for you, sometime."

"Having you here and seeing that beautiful smile is ample reward. I'll let you know if anything turns up." When she remained in her seat, as if trying to make a decision, he asked, "Is there something else?"

"I hesitate to even mention it, but yes, there is. Stephanie and I went to the cemetery this morning, and when I got out of my car, a black SUV pulled up alongside and stopped so close that it pinned me in. A car honked behind it, and it moved on, but . . . I don't know. I had a weird feeling that the driver had bad intentions."

Roman was frowning, visibly concerned. "Did you get a plate number?"

"No, I'm sorry I didn't. I was so shocked by what had just happened that I didn't think to."

He nodded. "That happens in most incidents involving a vehicle. I'm just glad you're safe."

"I almost didn't mention it, because I don't know what he had in mind and I didn't get any helpful information about the car."

"No, I'm glad you did. If you see it again, get the plate and let me know immediately."

"Well, I may have seen it again down the road from Wyatt house. I can't be sure, though. I didn't see it following me, and I noticed a lot of black cars on the road all around me, so it could have been a coincidence."

"But you don't think so?"

"I don't know. I admit, I'm a little creeped out by it."

"Well, black is one of the most popular vehicle colors, so there are a lot of them on the road. And, unfortunately, that means there really isn't anything we can do at the moment, since picking it out of the crowd would be impossible, but you can keep your eyes and ears open and pay attention. Get yourself one of those keyring canisters of pepper spray, and carry it with you. Get one for Stephanie too."

"I'll get them right away." She stood up then, satisfied that he had taken her seriously. "I'll be careful, and I'll let you know if I see it again. I need to get going. I've been a little neglectful of Mom and Pop. I can find my own way out."

Roman stood up and walked to the door of his office, watching as Kayla made her way toward the department door, a puzzled frown on his face, wondering what had happened at the cemetery and why someone would be interested in his sister.

As Kayla stepped through the police station doorway into the early evening sunlight, she paused briefly, stepping to one side so the entrance was clear for the officers and civilians going in and out of the station. With a sense of dread, her eyes scanned the parking lot before shifting to the curb, carefully observing the vehicles that were parked there, but there was no sign of the black SUV.

With a sigh of relief, she stepped off the curb and unlocked the door to her rental car, totally convinced now that the vehicle back at the house had merely been a coincidence. But she gave the lot one last cursory glance as she opened the door, just to be sure, then got inside and closed and locked it behind her.

As she pulled out onto the road, she did not notice the black SUV that was parked around the corner, its front end barely visible behind the van that was concealing it. The driver, watching attentively for her car to leave the lot, started the engine and eased around the corner, allowing other cars to get between them and remaining well back to avoid being seen.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

The headlights of Shane's medium gray BMW cut twin ribbons of light through the darkness as he guided his car along the network of motorways leading away from London. Although the time spent in the I.S.A. headquarters had been brief, typical of his other visits to Corporate, he had lingered in the capitol much longer than he had intended, and as a result had gotten a late start home. What had been intended to be a quick afternoon call on an old friend from Oxford had turned into an afternoon of golf at an exclusive club and a few drinks at the bar.

Evening traffic in and around London had initially been heavy with commuters leaving their workplaces, but as he progressed farther into the countryside, the traffic had begun to thin as motorists reached their destinations. Facing the setting sun as it slowly slipped over the horizon, he had tugged off his necktie and laid it across the laptop computer on the passenger seat, and quietly contemplated the conversation with Thiessen and the assignment he had been given.

As a field agent, he had never been called upon to investigate internal affairs, and the fact that he had been chosen suggested that Thiessen suspected anyone and everyone who worked out of the London offices. But Shane knew, as did Thiessen, there were logically only a handful of people with the means of getting in and out of the vault undetected.

He had known Thiessen for a long time, but he had never seen the man so deeply distressed by a case, and it was easy to understand why. The I.S.A. was a highly secretive organization, and the repercussions of extremely classified items falling into the wrong hands were far reaching. If sensors could be taken without notice, what else might be removed from the vaults without notice? Was this a precursor to other, even more classified objects being stolen? The implications were very disturbing, and he knew it was vital that he find the answers quickly.

As the traffic on M4 cleared and darkness settled over the landscape, Shane glanced in the rear-view mirror at a pair of headlights that had appeared behind him, seemingly hanging back for a long time. In his current frame of mind, he considered the possibility that it might be a rogue agent determined to prevent the investigation from going forward. He eased off the accelerator, waiting to see how the other driver would react.

As the BMW's speed slowed, the other vehicle moved closer, and after a few minutes of lingering, it pulled into the other lane to pass him. Shane was acutely alert, aware that the car might get ahead and cut him off, but after a few tense moments, the car accelerated ahead, and within minutes, its taillights were tiny red dots in the distance.

Shane relaxed, but could not resist a glance at the briefcase on the seat beside him, where the USB drive was tucked snugly in a secret compartment, untouched since he had placed it there after leaving the commander's office. The briefcase had been securely locked in the trunk of the BMW in a secure area while he golfed. He was impatient to view the files it contained, but opportunity had not presented a spare moment that he was not in the presence of someone who might witness the contents, so it was kept safely tucked away until he got home, where he could view it in private.

When his turnoff appeared, he turned on his blinker, even though there was no one on the road behind him, and executed the merge onto the narrower road that would take him toward his estate.

* * *

Driven to maintain his consistent pace by the hounds that he knew were almost certainly still trailing him, Steve pressed on into the nighttime landscape despite the exhaustion that threatened to send him to the point of collapse. It was an odd parallel to the experiences that had been faced over 130 years earlier by Gideon Wyatt, the Union officers whose house had eventually become Steve's and Kayla's, and the very house about which his kidnappers had so relentlessly questioned him. Wyatt had escaped from a Confederate prison and chased by hounds, and the irony of that was not lost on the one-eyed American. Never in his worst nightmare would he have ever predicted that something like this would happen to him.

Sometimes he saw them in the distance behind him in the moonlight, sometimes he even heard the bone-chilling baying of the dogs that tracked his scent, but even when he couldn't see or hear them, he knew they were there, following relentlessly.

He typically kept to the open areas, where he could travel faster, but eventually he came to a wooded area that was so broad, it was impossible to skirt around. There, slowed by the intense darkness of the heavily foliated canopy, he could barely see where he was going, so he felt his way through it with groping hands, using the rough trunks of the trees for support as she shuffled through it, trying to avoid tripping on the vines that covered the ground.

When he bumped into a solid obstruction, his hands fumbled for it, feeling the hard stones that had been stacked and mortared to form a barrier fence. With the fence identified, he climbed over it, being careful of loose stones, into what he assumed was another pasture, and staggered slightly off balance in his weariness as he started walking again.

After a few steps, however, he found himself in the middle of a long area where the trees parted, much like a tunnel, and it took his fatigued mind several moments to process the fact that the hard surface beneath his feet was a paved road, cutting through the woods.

An instant later, he was blinded by brilliant high-beam headlights as a vehicle drove around a curve. Tires squealed as the startled driver swerved and pressed hard on the brake.

Steve looked up, his eye large with shock, and his sluggish reflexes propelled him to leap out of the way, but he felt a glancing blow on his hip as one corner of the vehicle struck him, spinning him around, and he landed heavily at the edge of the pavement.

Momentum carried the car a short distant beyond before it came to a complete halt, and for several seconds there was almost total silence, with only the quiet, well-tuned motor of the vehicle purring almost inaudibly in the aftermath of the accident.

Stunned, Steve lay motionless on the hard pavement, watching in an almost detached manner as the car door opened and a man emerged from it, pausing briefly to stare at the crumpled human form on the ground in the faint red glow of his taillights.

"Oh, my God," the man exclaimed fearfully. Leaving the car door open wide, he ran toward the accident victim.

Steve watched the figure that approached him, footsteps pounding on the asphalt, and felt suddenly concerned that it might be someone in the employment of Vaughn, perhaps Carlton or Jennings. In a failed effort to get away, he struggled to get up to seek the cover of the woods again.

The man knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back down to the pavement. "Easy there, mate," said a startlingly familiar voice. "I'm afraid with the curve in the road, I didn't see you until it was too late. Best lie still until we can determine the extent of your injuries. I have a mobile phone that I can call for help."

Astonished, Steve stared at the dark figure, unable to clearly see the face. The man was silhouetted by the vehicle's taillights, his hand still firmly on his shoulder holding him down, but the voice was unmistakable. "Donovan?" he asked, his voice dry and hoarse.

A long pause ensued as the other man considered the fact that the person his vehicle had struck apparently knew him. But more than that, there was something distinctly familiar about the voice that had spoken his name. It was a voice he had not heard in a very long time, and his mind reached back into the past, trying to identify it.

A name did not come to him right away, but he was forced to consider the possibility that the man who lay on the pavement was someone involved with the I.S.A., someone whose intent might be to prevent his investigation into the stolen security devices. The accident might have been staged by someone determined to recover the information he had been given.

His body tensed, ready to fend off an attack, and he withdrew his hand from Steve's shoulder, placing a bit of distance between them, as he glanced cautiously into the woods on each side of the road, anticipating an ambush.

When no threat appeared, he looked back at the man on the ground. "Yes. I'm Shane Donovan."

"I was on my way to your place in the hopes that you'd be there, but I sure didn't expect to get mowed down by your car!" Steve said with a trace of amusement.

That voice again! The familiarity Shane experienced once again was unsettling, and he was frustrated that he was unable to bring a face into focus. "Who are you?"

Steve heard the bewildered tone, and even though he could not see the face in the darkness, he could easily imagine the frown that must be creasing the Englishman's face in reaction to hearing his voice. "It's me. Steve Johnson."

Shane flinched noticeably and placed a hand on the pavement as if to steady himself from a tremendous shock. "Steve?" he asked, warily. A pause followed as Shane matched the voice to the man he remembered. Yes, it did sound like Steve, but he could not accept it without visual verification. "No, that's impossible," he told him in a voice that had become harsh with distrust. He stood up and took a step back. Steve saw a demanding finger pointing at him. "You stay right where you are while I get a torch."

For a moment, Steve's fatigued mind pictured a flaming torch used in ancient times, then remembered that a torch in Britain referred to a flashlight, but now that fate had delivered him into the presence of the very man he had been seeking, he had no intention of going anywhere. "Go get it. I'll just wait here."

While Shane jogged back to the car, Steve sat up on the pavement and massaged his sore hip until his brother in law returned a few moments later with a flashlight, which was turned on and directed toward his face, making him blink and squint in the glare, but he did not protest, understanding that in Shane's line of work, it was necessary to be careful.

Shane stared at him attentively, scrutinizing his appearance, and the change was shocking. Except for the black eye patch, there was little resemblance to the man he remembered. The one-eyed man's hair was very long and matted and his face was covered by a long scraggly beard.

"Show me the tattoo," he demanded, unconvinced of his identity.

Steve had not expected this. "What?"

"The tattoo. Steve Johnson had a distinctive tattoo. Show it to me."

Bewildered by Shane's doubt and his unexpected identification process, Steve opened the front of his shirt and pulled it aside to reveal the dagger tattoo on his left pectoral. The flashlight spotlighted it as Shane carefully scrutinized it.

"Convinced?"

"No. There is a meaning behind the tattoo. What is it?"

"Look, I know I probably appear pretty wild. They didn't exactly give me a regular haircut or shave, but why all this cloak and dagger stuff?" Steve asked, then paused, considering the humor of the dagger tattoo and his question. "No pun intended," he added.

Shane was not amused. "The meaning?" he insisted.

"Bo and Britta and I got identical tattoos in Stockholm. They symbolized our friendship. The Three Daggers: 'Three together, together forever'."

Finally, he saw Shane give a nod. "All right. I believe you. But now, you have a hell of a lot of explaining to do!"

In the brief pause that hung between them, during which Steve's brow puckered in a puzzled frown at the demand for explanation, they heard the distant baying of a hound. Having lost precious time convincing Shane of his identity, he turned toward it, a reaction that the agent did not fail to comprehend. "Listen, man, I'll tell you everything I know, but not here," Steve told him.

"Someone is after you," Shane guessed.

"Yeah, and they're not very far behind."

"Who are they?"

"Who are they?" Steve retorted. "The damn I.S.A., that's who! Perhaps you can tell me why they kidnapped me, why they took me from my family, and why they've been holding me prisoner all this time?"

The two men stared at each other for several long, tense moments while the dogs continued to bay, moving constantly closer. The startled expression that he could barely see on Shane's face left no doubt in Steve's mind that the agent was totally stunned by the revelation, and was probably uninvolved.

"Why do you think it was I.S.A.?" Shane asked.

"I overheard a conversation that I was never intended to hear. They are either I.S.A. or ex-I.S.A. I'm not sure which."

More baying. Steve glanced nervously toward it. "Listen, if they find you here with me, you'll be in as much danger as I am. Like I said, I'll tell you everything I know, but if we don't hit the road right now, we're both going to disappear forever."

Shane weighed the threat carefully, then nodded. "All right. We'll go to my estate. Can you walk?"

"I think so. Other than a bruised hip, I don't think there is any damage," he replied, struggling to his feet. "You just winged me is all. Landing on the pavement hurt worse than the hit."

Steve rose to his full height and tested his weight on the injured leg. It was a bit sore and stiff, but held his weight with no trouble.

They walked back to the car, and Steve started to go to the right door before he remembered that everything was in the reverse in Britain, so he shifted direction and opened the left door, the passenger side, then hesitated when he saw Shane's computer and briefcase on the seat.

"Here, let me get those for you," Shane said as he slipped into the driver's seat on the right. Quickly, he gathered his belongings and placed them behind the driver's seat.

Steve got in and closed the door, then Shane revved the engine and the car accelerated away from the accident scene.

"Thanks, man. I really appreciate this," Steve said, gratefully.

"Well, it's the least I can do after hitting you with my car. I never expected to encounter a human on that road. It isn't well traveled, except for me and a few of my nearest neighbors." He glanced in his rear view mirror, half expecting to see another car back there, but he saw only the winding black ribbon of road disappearing into the darkness. "So, you said some people associated with the I.S.A. are after you? Do you know their names?"

"The names of my guards were Carlton, Jennings, and Harding. I don't know their first names."

Shane considered the names very carefully, turning each one over in his mind with deliberation before shaking his head. "They don't ring a bell. It should be easy enough, though, to see if they're in the I.S.A. database."

"There was one guy who seemed to have a lot of clout. Whenever he was around, I was always tied to a chair and he always stayed behind me, so I never saw his face, but he was very angry when Carlton spoke his name at a moment when I might hear it, so I think he was afraid I might recognize him. I swear the name is familiar, but I can't quite place where I heard it. The name was Vaughn. Do you know someone with that name?"

Shane glanced across the seat at him before returning his eyes to the road, and in that brief glance Steve saw both recognition and surprise in his expression. "Ogden Vaughn? Are you sure about that?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Like the others, I never heard his first name, but Carlton definitely called him 'Mr. Vaughn', and I can tell you, he's scared as hell of him. Do you know him?"

"Well, if it is Ogden Vaughn, he's supposed to be in prison," Shane explained, thoughtfully. "He was a high ranking officer in the I.S.A. back when Marlena was kidnapped. He wanted the Stockholm bonds that Roman had hidden."

The memory returned in a flash. "Yes! That's it!" Steve exclaimed. "I knew I remembered that name from somewhere! He has a history of kidnapping," he added, lowering his voice in quiet deliberation.

"I haven't thought about him in years." Shane fell silent again for several moments, wondering about the likelihood that the former agent had somehow gotten out of prison. It was not the case he had been assigned, but he was intrigued enough that he wanted to find the answers. "I assure you, Steve, I have no knowledge of all this, but I'll help you find the answers. I was unaware that Vaughn was due for parole, but you are right, he does have a history of kidnapping in order to get what he wants. What else can you tell me about this?"

"First things first. Before I escaped, I overheard them say that they plan to kidnap Kayla. And now that I've escaped, I know they'll fast-track that so they can use her for bait to lure me back. Can you check on her and make sure she's all right and maybe let her know that she might be in danger? And I want to talk to her."

Shane immediately reached into his lapel pocket and removed the cell phone that was concealed there. "I know you're anxious to talk to her, but the first thing I need to do is contact a trusted agent and have him put a tail on her. She won't even know she's being watched, but someone will always be close enough to keep her safe."

Relief flooded through Steve's body, and for the first time since his escape, he felt his body relax. Leaning back into the plush softness of the car seat, he could not restrain his sigh of pleasure. He had not experienced that sort of comfort in a very long time.

After dialing a series of numbers, Shane spoke into the phone, "Smith, its Donovan. I need an urgent tail put on a woman by the name of Kayla Brady Johnson. She's a doctor working at L.A. General Hospital." There was a brief pause as he listened to the other end of the line, while at the same time aware that Steve's face had whipped around toward him in surprise, and it occurred to him that Steve was totally unaware of any news of his family since his kidnapping. "No, surveillance only, and I need it right away. No waiting on this. Her life may be in danger, so keep someone close to her at all times. I don't want to frighten her, so make sure they are not seen. I'm investigating this incident from here, and I'll contact you later with any changes in instructions."

When he completed the call and returned the phone to his lapel, Steve said, "Thanks, man. You have no idea what it's been like for me these last few days, knowing that those goons might try to get to her. You said Kayla is a doctor at L.A. General?"

"She wanted to make a new start. A new life in a new place."

This was totally unexpected, and Steve felt his pulse and respiration increasing in shock. "I always assumed that she was still living in our house in Salem, waiting for me to be found, waiting for me to come home." Apprehension filled him. Had her feelings changed? Had she given up on him?

Shane observed him carefully, studying the bewildered expression over the news that Kayla had moved on with her life without him, and understood what he must have been thinking. "You don't know, do you? Steve, everyone thinks you're dead."

.

The news struck him like a physical blow, and Steve's shoulders slumped under the weight of it, rendering him speechless for several long moments. His expression was so stunned that Shane waited quietly to allow the impact to ease.

"Dead?" Steve whispered when he found his voice again. No wonder Shane had reacted with so much suspicion and surprise upon seeing him again! "No, that can't be! How could they pull something like that off? I was kidnapped, damn it!"

"If I were to venture a guess, I'd say that they staged your death as an elaborate way to keep us from looking for you. The question is, why?"

Steve did not seem to hear. "All this time," he said, his voice unnaturally weak. "I thought . . . I assumed I was just considered missing, that everyone was looking for me. Kayla . . . They must have put her through hell!"

Shane gave a confirming nod. "It was rough on everyone, but none harder than Kayla. She stayed in Salem for a while, but everywhere she went, there were reminders of you, reminders of what she had lost. She finally decided to put it all behind her and make a fresh start someplace else. Once she got settled, she went back to medical school and became a doctor."

Steve nodded to himself, his eye straying out the window to the dark landscape, still trying to come to terms with the news from back home. "Yes, Kayla's smart. It doesn't surprise me that she would continue to improve herself." His eye snapped back to Shane abruptly as another question popped unbidden and unwelcome into his mind, one that needed an immediate answer. "Is she . . ." He had trouble saying the words, but he needed to know. "Is she remarried?"

"No," Shane responded immediately, sparing him any additional concern. "She never remarried. As far as I know, she isn't even dating. She seems to have devoted her life to her career and to raising Stephanie."

Steve's heart seemed to expand with relief. "What about Stephanie? How old is she now?"

Shane hesitated. "Do you have any idea how long you've been away?"

"They never told me, never allowed me to see a calendar or even see a newspaper. I figure I've been gone years, maybe as many as seven or eight, but I can't be sure. Time gets away from you when you have no way of tracking it."

"Steve, you've been gone for almost sixteen years. This is June, 2006."

For the second time, the weight of an unexpected discovery left Steve feeling weak and deflated. Time had progressed past the millennium. The color drained from his face, and Shane reached over to place a steadying hand on his shoulder.

"Steve, are you all right?"

Steve did not seem to hear. His eye was unfocused in shock. "How can that be?" he asked, his voice weak with shock. "I don't understand! How can so much time have passed?"

* * *

With their noses to the pavement, the two bloodhounds whined with frustration as they moved in widening circles.

With a torch directed at the dogs, Jennings watched them with mounting apprehension. "What's wrong with them?"

"They've lost the scent," Carrasco, the dog handler replied, confirming what Jennings had already feared.

"What?" he bellowed. "How could that happen? I thought you said these dogs were good!"

"They are good. They're the best in my kennel and possibly in the country," Carrasco snapped, watching as the two hounds worked to recapture the scent. "Someone picked up the target."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive. Haven't you noticed that we're standing in the middle of a road? He got a ride with someone, that's what happened. Look at the dogs. The scent stops right in the middle of the road.

Jennings stared up the narrow corridor made by the road running through the grove of trees. "There's no way to track the car the picked him up?"

Carrasco shook his head. "No, sorry. Even if the dogs could track a particular car, we don't know which car picked him up, or how many other cars traveled this road since then. There's no point in going any farther. But judging from your expression, I'd say you know where he's going."

Jennings sighed. "I know. And Vaughn isn't going to like it."

A/N: iPhones did not hit the market until 2007, one year after this story takes place. I don't know if the old Motorolas or Nokias were capable of international calls, but I think it reasonable to assume that the ISA could have enhanced them enough to make oversees calls.


	17. Chapter 17

17

Holding a tray of food, water, and coffee for his surprise guest, Shane paused briefly in the doorway to the drawing room to look in at Steve Johnson, still marveling at the fact that the man had not only survived, but had been held prisoner for the last fifteen years by a man the I.S.A. agent had believed was still in prison. Given his history with the former agent, Shane felt both surprised and betrayed that he had not been informed of Vaughn's release.

After learning of the length of time and so many years lost that should have been spent with his family, Steve had experienced all the expected emotions: shock, followed by anger, and now the sorrow of the time that was gone forever, and as Shane contemplated him from the doorway, he recognized the despondency in the dejected slump and the way he was staring at the floor between his feet, deep in thought. It was a lot to come to terms with, and Shane felt a unique kinship with him. Theirs were much different circumstances, but the end result was the same: separation from family and children.

Shane gave his head a slight shake, still amazed by the things that had occurred over the past hour. Steve Johnson was probably the last person in the world he would have expected to encounter on that lonely stretch of road leading toward the estate, and he had changed so much that had the man not identified himself, he would not have recognized him. It was doubtful that his hair or beard had been trimmed at all during those fifteen years, for both were very long and tangled from lack of grooming. The eyepatch was still his most identifying feature, but even that was partially hidden behind the tangled mat of hair.

Setting aside his bewilderment and curiosity over the events that had led up to this moment, Shane entered the room and placed the tray on the coffee table in front of Steve. Ordinarily, the task would have been left to a member of his staff, but he understood that Steve had needed a few minutes alone to recover from what must have been a terrible blow, and this had given him an excuse to leave the room for a short while.

When Steve looked up, Shane said, "I hope you like Cornish pasties."

Steve looked at the turnover shaped pie on the plate. He had never been served a Cornish pasty, but its delicious aroma reignited the ravenous hunger that had been temporarily stayed in the aftermath of the shocking duration of his confinement. "I've never had one. What is it?"

"Well, I think the closest American equivalent would be a pot pie, except for the shape. Its beef and vegetables cooked inside a pastry crust."

Steve picked up the fork and cut a piece from the end of the pasty. Steam rose from inside it, carrying with it the delicious aroma of meat and potatoes. After tasting it, he nodded his approval. "It's good. After the steady diet of cheap sandwiches and condensed soup, this is a feast. Thank you."

"You're most welcome. It's a working man's meal, actually," Shane explained. "The miners used to take them to work because they're quite portable and can be eaten with one hand. In spite of the fact that I'm high-born and much to my father's complete consternation, it's always been a particular favorite of mine. There's no explaining the human palate," he added with a smile. "My chef is excellent, and he always prepares a few extra for snacking later."

Steve did not answer, concentrating instead on his meal, so Shane moved to the window, gazing thoughtfully out at the night, allowing his guest a few moments to eat without being watched.

The night that had settled over the lawn appeared calm and peaceful, but he knew that somewhere beyond the gates of his residence, criminals could be lurking, probably assessing the situation, trying to determine how best the recover their prisoner. The gates were closed, blocking direct access, but there were other ways onto the property. That, he knew, placed his life in danger as well. Would they have a feasible story for their crime, or would they eliminate all witnesses?

Steve must have been thinking the same thing, for a few minutes later, he said, "Listen, man, I'm sorry to bring this to your doorstep, but I didn't know where else to go. It's a sure bet they know this is where I was heading, and I know this places you in some danger as well."

"I've been in dangerous situations many times before," Shane replied. "You had no choice. I understand that, and I'm going to help you."

"The best way you can help me is to get me out of here as fast as possible, before they get here. I just need some way to get back home. You have a private plane, right? Maybe your pilot could fly me out."

"You'll need papers to get back inside the United States," Shane reminded him. Turning from the window, he sat down in one of the easy chairs. "And getting documents of that nature takes some time. The residence is safe, Steve. Even if they come here, they can't get inside the house."

"You don't understand!" Steve protested. "Kayla is in danger as well! If those thugs get hold of her –"

"I'm aware of that," Shane interrupted. "I have someone on the job to protect her. I assure you, he won't let anything happen to her. But we need to think this entire thing through before we send you back to America, and to sort through the details, I need to know as much as you can tell me, starting with your abduction."

"Is this really necessary?"

"It is, Steve. I need to know exactly what we're up against. Whoever abducted you somehow managed to give the illusion that you were dead. That is no small feat. Can you remember what happened when you were kidnapped?"

Steve nodded. "I've had a lot of time to think about it, and I know how they did it, I just don't know why. I remember after the boat explosion, I had started to feel much better, stronger, and Kayla thought I was on the mend. Everything was going good until someone came in and replaced my i.v. bag. It wasn't long after that when I started to feel strange. Lightheaded. And my heart was beating strange; really irregular." His hand moved to his chest, remembering the unpleasant sensations of that occurrence. "I thought I was dying, and I could tell from Kayla's expression that she thought so too. After that, I only have brief snatches of memory, like small glimpses of things. I was so disoriented, like I was in some kind of stupor or something. Eventually, I started to feel more like myself, but I know now that it must have taken years for me to recover from whatever was in that bag." His gaze was pointed. "Was it an I.S.A. drug?"

"I don't' know," Shane answered with honesty. "I don't know of any drugs within the organization that are capable of mimicking death, but whatever it was, it must have been something very unique to have escaped the notice of Kayla and the doctors at the hospital. They would have checked for vital signs, so it would have had to take you to the very brink of death to lower your pulse, blood pressure, and respiration enough to make them undetectable." He paused, thoughtfully. "Hypothetically speaking, I would think the dosage would need to be very specific to your height, weight, age, and physical condition, and then monitored carefully for the duration that you were under its effects. I wonder if one of the staff doctors was in on the plot. The monitoring would have had to continue right up through the funeral to make sure you didn't wake up ahead of schedule."

"I don't know, but there were a lot of doctors and nurses in and out of that room. Any one of them could have been part of it, but it had to have gone farther than that. Aren't dead people embalmed or something?"

"That's right, and clearly you were not. That implies that the mortician may have been involved as well. Once you had recovered, did they interrogate you during the time you were held captive?"

"Yes, on a fairly regular basis, and they weren't too nice about it, either. They wanted to know about my house. Can you believe that? They kept asking about secret passages, hidden cubby holes in the walls, safes behind sliding panels, that kind of thing. They were very insistent about it, even though I kept telling them there was nothing like that there."

"So they were after something they think is hidden inside the house?"

"That's the only thing I can figure, but it makes no sense. I helped with the renovations. I know every inch of that house."

"Did they ever tell you what it was they were looking for?"

"No. They kept that to themselves."

Shane rose from the chair, and returned to the window to peruse the dark lawn, observing that there was no sign of unusual activity yet. "How did you manage to escape?"

"I waited a very long time for an opportunity. There were holding me in the basement room of a house north of here, near someplace called Loughborough, I think. Before that, I'm not sure where I was held. They moved me occasionally, and to do that they would slip a drug into my coffee. I started to recognize the difference in the taste, and this time I poured it out and pretended to be unconscious when they came for me. I managed to tranquilize one bastard with his own dart rifle, and locked them both in the basement. I drove away in the van they had planned to use for my transfer, but the damn thing blew a tire outside Crudwell, and I ended up on foot the rest of the way."

"Why did they bother drugging you?" Shane asked. "Why not just tie you up and move you without the dramatics?"

"I overheard them mention that they needed to move the security sensors and other devices from the old place to the new one. They didn't want to have to deal with me trying to escape during that time, I guess."

Shane whirled away from the window, startled. "Wait a minute. You said there were security sensors? Are you sure of this?"

"Positive." Steve lifted his eyebrows, wondering at the other man's astonishment. "I never actually saw them, but I guess they were on the windows and doors. From the way they were talking, I had the impression it was all I.S.A. stuff."

"So that's what they used them for," Shane said to himself. Moving to the chair closest to Steve, he sat down and leaned forward, intrigued. "I was just called in on a case to investigate the theft of some highly classified I.S.A. security devices. Just this very morning! You said you shot one with a tranquilizer rifle. Three tranquilizer rifles and boxes of darts were also stolen."

"They have tranquilizer rifles and darts, but I don't know how many."

"Someone in the organization has been pilfering them over the years, but the inventory records have been altered to cover up the theft. It was only just recently discovered. We're not sure exactly how long the theft has been going on, but it's pretty damned obvious now exactly what the purpose was."

"Me," Steve guessed.

"Yes."

There was an excited energy in the room while Shane pondered the information he had acquired. Steve used the lull in the conversation to eat the last few bites of the pasty, and when he had finished, he drained his water. The coffee was conspicuously untouched. He then leaned back on the sofa to look at Shane.

"So, this all somehow ties back to your house in Salem," the Englishman said. "And you remember nothing unusual inside the house?"

"It was just an old house, built prior to the Civil War. Kayla and I found an old trunk in the attic that had some Civil War artifacts in it, but nothing I would consider valuable."

"As a matter of curiosity, what kind of artifacts did you find in that trunk you mentioned?"

"Old clothes, pictures, an antique pistol carried by a Union officer, his uniform, and a diary. We read the diary, and it was an account of a romance between a southern woman and the Union officer. It was an interesting story, but nothing that would be of particular value, except to a historian or someone interested in the Civil War." He paused a moment, thinking. "The diary did suggest that there was a hidden room behind a wall in the drawing room, but we never found it. Kayla and I decided that it must have been opened up at some point to become part of the drawing room itself."

"You're sure about that?"

Steve shrugged. "If there was a hidden room, it isn't there anymore."

Shane leaned back, thinking. "They must have been after something else, then. Something they thought was there, something valuable enough to make it worth their time and expense to keep you confined all this time. But what?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't have a clue."

At that moment, the phone rang, an unexpected sound that made both of them flinch. Shane glanced at the caller I.D. "It's Smith, the man I put on Kayla." He picked up the handset and said, "Donovan."

Steve leaned forward anxiously. If the guy was calling back this quickly, something must have happened!

Shane listened attentively, his eyes locked with Steve's, yet they revealed no hint of what was being said on the other end of the line. "You're absolutely certain?" he asked into the phone. After another pause, he said, "All right. I'll call the Salem operative right away and put him on the case."

Terminating the call, Shane returned the phone to its cradle.

"What is it?" Steve asked, unable to hide his worry. "Is it Kayla? Is she all right?"

"She's not in Los Angeles. She's in Salem." He nodded toward the empty plate of food. "If you're finished, I'll take you to a safe place where you can get cleaned up and rest. While you're doing that, I'll get my plane ready to leave and make some arrangements. I'm flying back with you. I don't trust anyone else with this. And I certainly don't want to put you on a commercial flight." He picked up the phone again. "First, I'll call the agent in Salem to get him on Kayla, then I need to call Roman and see if he can find a remote location for the plane to land. Someone will need to pick us up, too."

Steve watched as he dialed the number, excitement nudging its way into his stomach. At long last, after all those long and lonely years, the wheels were set in motion; he was going home.

* * *

Looking up from his paperwork, Chief of Police Roman Brady glanced restlessly at the clock on the wall. It was late-afternoon, and some of the day shift were already wrapping up their cases to retire for the day. As a favor to Kayla, he had spent part of the day pulling files to investigate the Wyatt house. Normally the task of tracking down and pulling old files, especially for a simple case of vandalism, some of which had not yet been computerized, would have been assigned to one of the desk officers, but the information that was turning up was troubling enough to secure his interest, but after an hour or so, his duty made it necessary to return to his daily work.

The files were now in his desk drawer for later examination.

The office door was open, as it usually was, permitting the steady drone of noise from the outer offices into the smaller room. The Venetian blinds that hung on the windows and door were all open, giving him a clear view of his subordinates going through their regular duties.

As usual, there was a mountain of paperwork in the "in" box that was positioned on the corner of the desk, his least favorite task, ranging from important files pertaining to open cases, to less consequential mail that needed sorting according to their relevance. The receptionist had already removed the obvious junk mail, leaving him to decide the importance of the rest.

Taking the next letter from the stack, he scanned it quickly. It was a request from the local Boy Scouts inviting him to conduct a lecture on crime prevention at an upcoming meeting. Of course, he would accept the invitation, as he did every time he was asked by the Scouts, so he placed it in the "to do" stack and reached for the next one, but as he tried to focus on it, he found his mind wandering a bit, drifting back to Kayla, her late husband Steve, and the dilapidated old house that they had loved.

Leaning back in his chair, the paperwork still spread out in front of him, he rubbed his tired eyes and took a short break. Like many people his age, he was resisting the reading glasses he knew he needed, and suffered from occasional eyestrain as a result. Marlena was on him to set aside his pride and just do it, but he found it difficult to accept that his eyes were in the "over 40"category.

With a sigh, he opened his desk drawer in search of a small bottle of eye drops, but as he withdrew it, the cell phone he had placed on the desk at his elbow began to ring.

He glanced at the phone's caller I.D. window, seeking the name of the person on the other end of the line, but the display read: PRIVATE. He hated calls like that, where the caller did not want to be identified, but if the caller had his private number, giving him immediate access rather than going through the Department switchboard, then it was most likely important.

Picking up the phone, he said, "Brady."

"Roman, I'm glad I caught you," said the distinctly British voice of his former brother in law and good friend.

A smile crossed Roman's face. "Hey, good to hear from you, old friend. What's up?"

"Is your door open?"

Roman's eyes automatically darted to the office door, even though he already knew it was wide open. He became instantly alert, knowing that Shane's question was not idle curiosity. "Yes."

"Close it, please," Shane requested in a polite, conversational tone. "We mustn't be overheard."

An ominous sensation prickled at the back of Roman's neck, but he instantly got up and pushed the door closed, then twisted the wand to close the blinds, assuring even deeper privacy. "Sounds serious," he said as he took his seat again.

"It is. Is this still a secure line?" Shane asked. "With no extension that can be picked up by anyone else?"

"Yes. It's my private line with no extension."

"I'm flying into Salem tomorrow morning, and I need to make some arrangements. Being out of touch with local facilities, I hoped I might enlist your assistance on a matter of importance."

"Sure, whatever you need."

"First, no one must know I'm coming. Absolutely no one. I can't offer you any details over the phone, just in case someone has managed to tap into either your line or mine, but I cannot fly into the airport due to security reasons. I need an alternative site."

"What about a private airport?"

"No, still too risky. We need to find someplace very private and out of the way. Someplace that no one would think to look."

Roman's brows drew together, puzzled by the unusual request. "I should be able to find a place that fits the bill, but it might take some time."

"I apologize for the short notice, but we don't have much time. I will be bringing someone with me, someone whose life is in grave danger. It is imperative that I get him out of England without delay. I want to arrive in Salem early tomorrow morning, your time."

Roman turned over his wrist to look at his watch, an automatic reaction, even though it was only a few minutes later than the last time he had looked at the clock on the wall. "I'll have something for you before then."

"Good. Second, I need a safe house for this person, someplace off the beaten path, but which can be easily defended. It will need a security perimeter, as tight as you can get it."

"Sure, you can use -"

"Don't say it, just in case anyone might be listening," Shane interrupted. "That detail must be kept secret until we arrive."

There was a brief pause before Roman asked, "Is this I.S.A. business?"

This time, it was Shane who paused, confirmation in itself. After a moment, he said, "It is, in an indirect manner of speaking. It's complicated, very complicated, and for the moment, knowledge of this cannot get out to anyone, not even the I.S.A., but I need someone I can trust. That's why I'm calling you. I hate to involve you in this, but in a roundabout way, you're already involved anyway. I'll explain that when I get there. When you find a place for us to land, call me back on my private number using a different secure phone. Don't text the information. I don't want any important details communicated in a written trail that might allow it to fall into the wrong hands."

"Understood."

"I'll also need someone to pick us up."

Roman glanced at his desk calendar. "I have an early meeting in the morning, but I can cancel it and pick you up myself."

"No, don't do that. It's very important that you don't change your routine or alter any meetings or appointments. You can't do anything that might arouse suspicion. I can't stress that enough. Keep your routine normal. Once we land and he's safely tucked away, I'll rent a car and come to your office. I'll explain everything then."

Roman was dying of curiosity, but he understood that everything Shane did had a purpose. Moving away from his desk, he wandered to the window and gazed down at the street below. "This is big, isn't it?"

"Very big, and possibly quite dangerous. You need to keep your eyes and ears open too, Roman. There could already be operatives in Salem hoping to intercept us when we get there. I just can't be sure at this point just how far it's actually gone."

Roman's eyes observed the vehicles and passersby, scrutinizing each one with sudden suspicion. "Am I being watched?"

"I don't know, but it's possible. That's why I don't want you to break routine. They mustn't know that you're aware of anything. If you spot someone following you, don't do anything to arouse suspicion. Don't try to apprehend them or make contact in any way. Just go on about your normal business as if they weren't there. Don't your guard, though."

"All right."

"Roman, remember; nothing to arouse suspicion. At the risk of being redundant, I cannot stress that enough. And the person who picks us up must be completely trustworthy."

"He will be."

"All right. I'll text you the expected time of our arrival as soon as I know it, but It'll be the only thing in the text. The person you select to pick us up should get to the site before we do. The plane will circle to verify that all is well, so have him flash the headlights on his car twice as a signal that he's the person you selected. Don't tell anyone else that I'm coming. My life and especially the life of this other person depend on total secrecy."

"I understand." For the briefest moment, he considered telling Shane that Kimberly was in town, then deiced it probably wasn't the right time. The life of the man Shane was protecting was foremost in the Englishman's mind, and it would not be practical to distract him with a personal matter. He would find out soon enough. "All right, then. I'll see you tomorrow."

Roman replaced the phone on its cradle and sat looking at it for several moments. Shane had not revealed the name of a second party, but he could only assume that he was someone important, a witness perhaps. Whatever it was, it must be a critical case.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

After disconnecting the call to Roman, Shane put down the phone and turned to Steve. "It's all set."

"What about Kayla?" Steve asked, anxiously. "You didn't mention Kayla. Roman should be made aware that -"

"I know you're worried about her," Shane interrupted, "but the man I placed on her will keep her safe, I promise. Like I told Roman, I don't want him altering his routine in any way, and if he thought Kayla was in danger, he'd want to keep an eye on her himself, and that could make it more dangerous for both of them."

He sighed in frustration, but he knew that Shane was right about Roman protecting Kayla if he thought she was in danger. "I just feel so damned helpless."

"I know you do, and in your shoes, I'd feel the same way. But this is the best way for now."

"Do you think they're really watching Roman too?"

"Since Kayla is back in Salem, we have to assume that the whole Brady family is being watched, but they know Roman is the one I'm most likely to contact. Now, we need to find you a place to rest and get cleaned up while I make arrangements to fly us out of here." His expression was both kind and concerned. "You look dead on your feet."

He gestured to the sofa. "There's no need to go to any trouble. I can just crash right here until we're ready to leave."

"There is also a window right over there that overlooks the side yard, and even with the drapes closed there is still too much of a risk. If these people are affiliated with some rogue branch of the I.S.A., they may have detection methods that could let them know you're here. You've come too far for us to be careless at this point. I'd feel a lot better with you in the safe room."

"The safe room? You mean the I.S.A. room?"

Shane smiled as if revealing a secret that he alone knew. "Not the I.S.A. room. This is a very old house with secret rooms and passages, so when I joined the I.S.A. I decided to utilize one of those rooms for myself. Even the I.S.A. doesn't know about this one. You'll be perfectly safe there, and you can get some rest while I make a few phone calls."

With Steve trailing behind, Shane led the way out of the room and down a long corridor. When he reached the end of it, he stopped before a sliding panel that opened to reveal a dark stairwell that descended into the blackness of the subterranean room below.

Steve looked into the darkness below, and balked. After fifteen years of being locked up in a basement, confinement was not something he intended to allow again. "You're joking, right?"

"It is rather gothic, I know," Shane admitted with a smile, unaware of the nature of Steve's thoughts. "But sometimes the simplest arrangements are the safest."

He reached inside the stairwell and flipped a light switch. Instantly, the narrow stairwell was bathed in a soft glow. Stepping inside, Shane started down the stairs.

Steve moved to the head of the steps and looked down, watching as Shane made his way deeper and deeper into the substructure, but he made no move to follow.

Halfway down, Shane noticed that his guest was not following, so he stopped and looked up at him. "Coming?"

Steve shifted nervously, unable to quell the apprehension he felt at the prospect of being confined to a basement room again. "Look, man, I've spent the last fifteen years of my life locked up in a basement, and . . . . " His voice trailed.

Shane's expression changed as he suddenly understood. "Forgive my thoughtlessness, Steve. I should have realized how it would look. However, you won't be locked in this time, you have my word. And it's just for an hour or two. But you know as well as I do that if this is an illicit branch of the I.S.A. and they come here looking for you, you'll want the safest place possible."

Steve could not argue with the logic. With a deep sigh of resignation, he stepped down the first step and the panel slid closed behind him, seemingly of its own accord. For a brief moment, he had the almost overpowering urge to break through the panel again, but he knew it was probably just a house servant closing it behind him.

Drawing a deep breath, he started down the stairs, following Shane into the basement area. The passage was so narrow that his shoulders almost touched the walls on either side, giving him a strong sensation of claustrophobia.

When he reached the bottom, he found himself in a room about the size of the dwelling he had rented from Chris Kositchek at Shenanigans years earlier, before his marriage to Kayla. That room had been subterranean also, although not as deep as this one. Against all four walls were floor to ceiling wine racks with several additional racks standing in back-to-back rows in the center of the room.

"A wine cellar?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows.

"A good cover, don't you think? These bottles are worth a small fortune, many of them dating to my grandfather's time, so if someone from the I.S.A. or any other shadowy group, found the secret door, they would have no reason to think that this was anything other than a storage place for my Bordeaux, Champagne, and Chablis, among others."

Kneeling down, Shane reached far back under one of the racks and felt around for the lever, placed in an inconspicuous spot, and a very narrow section of the wall popped open a few inches. The wine rack, Steve saw, was attached to the secret door, and Shane grasped the edge of it and used it as a handhold to open it fully.

Steve looked curiously at the floor, surprised to see that the legs of the rack had not left any drag marks on the smooth surface.

Noticing the direction of his gaze, Shane said, "It was carefully calculated to look like the legs are touching the floor, when in actuality the whole rack is affixed to the door just a fraction above the floor. No one who comes into this room would be the wiser."

Shane led the way to the room, but Steve again stopped in the doorway, looking at the interior. The room was small, much smaller than the wine room. The furnishing was sparse; a twin bed, a nightstand, a comfortable looking recliner. Another doorway led to what he presumed would be a bathroom. It looked suspiciously like a holding cell, not unlike the one he had just spent years of his life, and for a few moments, he actually entertained the notion that Shane might betray him.

"No way, man," he said, shaking his head as he took several steps backward. "I'm not going in there."

"It's all right, Steve," Shane said, soothingly. "You can trust me, I promise." When Steve continued to balk, he said patiently, "Steve, I know how it must look to you, but you came to me for help. Part of that help involves keeping you safe while I arrange a flight out of here. You can bet, Vaughn knows where you were headed, and they're likely on their way here now, if they're not here already."

The distrust that Shane saw in Steve's eye was troubling. It was the look of a man who was terrified of being tricked into confinement.

"Steve, I don't know how I can prove to you that I can be trusted, except to appeal to you that I would never participate in anything so reprehensible as what those people did to you. Think back to what you remember about me. Do you ever remember me committing any act that was less than honorable?"

Steve was watching him closely as he spoke, and his resistance began to fade. "I want to trust you, man, but you have no idea what it's like to be locked up when you don't even know why."

"You won't be locked in, Steve. The lever that opens the door from inside is right here," Shane replied, indicating a small lever handle on the wall beside the door. "This was never intended to be a prison or anything like that, merely a 'safe room'. You have everything you'll need in here for a few hours, even a shower in the loo, in case you'd like to get cleaned up."

Finally, a slight grin replaced the worry. "That bad, huh?"

"Pardon?" Shane asked, failing to catch the joke.

Steve waved it aside and took a deep, calming breath as he stepped inside the safe room. "Never mind. Listen, man. I don't want you to think that I don't appreciate what you're doing. I was just taken by surprise when I realized that your safe room was in a basement. I know I'd have had a helluva time getting out of England without your help."

"I'm glad to help," Shane responded. "The information you provided about those security devices is very important. We knew that whoever stole them might be up to something illegal, but we had no idea they had done something like this. You've done us a great favor as well, and once you're safely in Salem, I'll be able to make the appropriate contacts to deal with these people."

He started for the door, but was stopped by Steve speaking his name. "Shane."

He turned. "Yes?"

The intensity of his relief was expressed in his whole body, from the sudden sagging weariness to the grateful expression. "Thanks, man."

"You're welcome."

With a smile and a nod, Shane made his exit through the narrow doorway, and closed it behind him.

Steve stood for several moments just inside the door, still troubled by that niggling sensation of betrayal, and as a test he pressed the lever that Shane had told him would open the door. It popped open immediately. Satisfied, he pulled it shut. For the first time in a long time, he actually felt safe. And tomorrow he would be back in Salem, and hopefully in Kayla's arms.

Going into the bathroom, he found all the usual necessities; a toilet and shower, plus a small mirror positioned above a wash basin and cabinet. On the countertop were towels and plenty of soap and shampoo. And in the mirror, he caught his reflection, something he had not seen in fifteen years. Placing his hands on the edge of the counter, he studied his appearance.

The changes were shocking. Not only was his hair and beard excessively long and matted, but what he could see of his face and eyes through the long hair were more careworn. The exhaustion and worry were evident.

Leaning into the shower, Steve turned on the water. Instantly, a wide spray of warm water came from the large round showerhead, much too enticing to be ignored.

He peeled off his clothes and stepped into the warm spray, experiencing a strong sense of relaxation from the warm water. He took his time, lathering his long tangled hair and soaping his body, washing away the travel grime, and when he rinsed, he just stood there for some time letting the warm water cascade down his tired body, soothing the weary muscles.

When he finally opened the shower stall door and stepped out, he discovered that his clothes were missing. For a moment, he felt a sense of alarm until he saw the plush robe that had been left for him. Shane had probably ordered someone to wash his clothes for him.

He could not help but smile at the thought. He must have been pretty ripe! No wonder Shane had not wanted him to bunk on the sofa!

After drying himself with the thick bath towel, he slipped into the robe and wandered into the other room again to await the return of his clothes, but when he emerged from the lavatory, his body flinched in alarm to find a man standing in the middle of the room beside a cushioned stool of the type often found beneath kitchen counters. Beside the stool was a rolling metal tray displaying men's grooming equipment.

"I apologize if my presence startled you, Mr. Johnson," the man said in a smooth voice with an English accent. "Mr. Donovan thought you might appreciate a haircut and shave."

"I'd rather get out of here and head for home," he replied, warily.

"Yes, sir. Mr. Donovan is making the arrangements as we speak, but it will take some time to acquire the necessary documents to get you through customs. In the meantime, Mrs. Foster is washing your clothes. There is plenty of time to tidy up a bit, if you wish."

Steve glanced at the tray again. It contained a variety of brushes and combs, and several different styles of scissors and clippers. Looking at the servant again, nodded. "All right. I don't really like this rat's nest I'm carrying around."

"Very good, sir. Have a seat, and we will get started."

Steve moved to the stool and sat down. "Are you experienced at this sort of thing?" he asked, curiously.

"Oh, by all means, sir," he replied, amiably. "I am responsible for caring for Mr. Donovan's hair, among other responsibilities at the estate, of course. He very much dislikes going to the barber shop and depending on strangers for this sort of thing."

"Of course," Steve said with a trace of amusement, although he fully understood the advantages of employing someone familiar with his particular tastes and preferences. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Call me Hargrove, sir. I am Mr. Donovan's butler and household manager. I suggest we start with the beard. Do you prefer clean shaven, or a suitably trimmed beard? I understand you had enjoyed both styles before your confinement."

Steve considered the question for a moment, then replied, "I'll keep a trimmed beard. Along the jaw and mustache. Both suitably trimmed, as you said."

"Certainly sir," Hargrove said cheerfully.

Taking up his instruments, the butler went to work cutting away the chest-length scraggly beard and carefully trimming it into the appropriate length for a well-groomed look. Last, he took a razor and shaved Steve's throat and the area below his cheekbones, leaving a mustache and short beard along the jaw.

When he was finished, he handed Steve a mirror for his inspection and approval.

Steve looked at his reflection, very different now than what he had seen in the lavatory only minutes earlier, and his fingers stroked the short whiskers approvingly. "Good job, Hargrove. I almost recognize myself now."

"Thank you, sir. Shall we tackle the hair, now? Mr. Donovan provided me with photographs of you before."

He indicated an 8 x 10 photograph of him with Kayla, and Steve took it to observe it, but he was more interested in his wife than he was in himself. She was beautiful in the picture, smiling happily at the camera, and he felt his eye mist at the sight of her.

"Would you like something similar to the old style?" Hargrove asked, unaware of Steve's emotional reaction to the picture.

Steve cleared his throat and placed the picture back on the tray. "Yeah, sure. Anything I better than this rat's nest."

"As you wish, sir. There are a good many tangles, it appears, but I believe I can smooth them out."

For the next half hour, Hargrove made the initial cuts to Steve's hair, then combed it out carefully, using a spray-on detangler to deal with the worst of the mats, and shaping it until he finally had something similar to the style to which Steve had been accustomed in his younger days. Laying aside his instruments, he handed Steve the mirror again.

Steve looked carefully at his reflection, marveling at the job Hargrove had done in returning his appearance to something more civilized. He shook his head back and forth. "It feels about ten pounds lighter."

Hargrove smiled. "Yes, sir. I'm afraid it is a bit different," he explained. "As we get older, our hair tends to change texture a bit. You'll find it won't have quite the lift that it once had or the same consistency, but you're one of the lucky ones. You have retained a good hairline, something that eludes many of us as we age."

"You did an excellent job, Hargrove," Steve said, presenting his hand to the surprised butler. "I thought I'd have to shave it all off to get rid of those mats."

Hargrove accepted the handshake. "Why, thank you sir. I'm happy you're pleased."

"Very pleased." He shook his head again, enjoying the lightness of it as it moved. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome, sir. I'll leave you to rest now. Mr. Donovan will return soon to explain the travel plans."

Pushing the tray ahead of him, he departed the room, leaving Steve alone again. With nothing else to do, he sat down in the easy chair. It was a recliner, so he leaned it back and closed his eyes, waiting for someone to return his clothes.

* * *

With Steve safely tucked away in the hidden area in the basement, Shane went directly to the I.S.A. room and picked up the secure phone, dialing the private cell number that Thiessen had provided on the USB drive. As he dialed, he paced the room, glancing at each of the monitors displayed on the wall, searching for intruders in various locations throughout the property. So far, there was no sign that Steve's pursuers had arrived.

"Shane?" Thiessen asked as he came on the line, having recognized the name and number on the caller I.D. "I didn't expect to hear from you so soon. Did you find him already?"

"No, not yet, but I have some disturbing information on why the devices were stolen," Shane replied. Briefly, he explained his encounter with Steve and the story he had had told.

The tale was followed by several moments of silence as Thiessen considered the implications. When he finally spoke, his voice was curious, but cautious.

"Ogden Vaughn?" he said. "I haven't heard that man's name in years."

"Neither have I, but he seems up to his neck in this situation. We need to find out who secured his release from prison and when."

"I'll take care of that." Thiessen paused briefly, then said, "It seems a bit odd that this man would show up so soon after our meeting," he said, warily. "Just how well do you know this Steve Johnson? Do you believe his story?"

"He's my former brother in law. Our wives are sisters. I can't say I knew him all that well. His reputation was a bit questionable early on, but he turned into a very dependable man, and I believe he is truthful in this matter. If you could see him, I think you'd have no doubt either. He walked much of the way on foot until our encounter on the road. There's no getting around the fact that he is rough around the edges and says exactly what he thinks, but I don't think I've ever known him to lie. I know his story sounds more than a little outlandish, but the fact of the matter is, he's supposed to be dead. We buried him 15 years ago. The entire family, including me, saw his body. Whoever did this was very good at making him appear dead and at keeping him stowed away all these years. It certainly explains their need for the security equipment you described to me."

"Yes, it does," Thiessen conceded. "I had no idea those devices would be used for something of this nature, but I'm hoping all this will lead us to the thief or thieves. What are your plans? Can this Steve Johnson retrace his steps back to the house they were holding him in?"

"We'll get to that, but first, I need to get him out of the country immediately and get him someplace safe. Tonight."

Thiessen was quiet again for several moments, clearly in disagreement with his subordinate's plan of action, then said in a disapproving voice, "No, Shane. I would have to object to that. I trust your instincts," he added quickly for fear of offending him, "but it's very important that we resolve this as quickly as possible, and that means sending some men over to that house where he was kept to see if we can round those people up, question them, and see if they can provide the name of the person who stole these devices. This must be done as quickly as possible."

"I'm afraid that would be a fool's errand, Dennis. I doubt very seriously that anyone is at that house right now to round up, anyway. They're out looking for Steve, and they were already in the process of moving him to a new location that is unknown. That's why I need to get him out of here as soon as possible. They almost certainly know he's heading for my place, and I'd like to make a clean escape before they get here. He's very anxious to get home."

"Assure him that he will be well protected. I'll get some men over to your place by dawn. If we can lay a trap for these men, we may be able to settle this matter tonight."

This time, it was Shane with the distinctly disapproving voice. "Dennis, I understand your eagerness to wrap this up quickly, but at this point, we cannot become careless. We don't know who we can trust. Someone at the I.S.A. provided those criminals with devices necessary to keep Steve confined for fifteen years. How many others might be involved? Do we know who they are? If we go with your plan, we would need the assistance of agents before they can be properly vetted for this case. We cannot take the risk, and I know Steve will not cooperate with anyone he doesn't trust. How can I ask him to trust someone when I'm not sure I can trust them myself? I also know him well enough to know that he's not going to cooperate with anyone, even me, until he sees his family. He's been separated from them for over 15 years, imprisoned in a basement cell. It's a wonder the man is still sane."

Thiessen sighed with resignation. "Very well, then. We'll do it your way, but I must reiterate the necessity of locating and arresting these people in a timely manner."

"This is the best way to go about it, I believe."

"What do you need from me?"

"The problem is, we will need to go through customs when we get to the States, and he does not have any identification on him. I have no idea how they got him to England to begin with, but we don't have the time to plan anything so grandiose as sneaking him out of England and then into the United States without detection. We need to go through customs, and to do that we'll need to forge a passport and an I.S.A. badge."

"His information is probably still in our computers' archives." Thiessen paused to scratch his thinning hair, deep in thought. "It would be no trouble to have the information extracted and have a new passport and identification badge printed, but our usual source would require several days to get it together."

"We don't have that much time. Steve said those guys who are after him are not far behind. My guess is, they're on their way to my house as we speak and could arrive at any time."

"Your house is a fortress," Thiessen reminded him. "You should be able to hold them off until I can send some of our most trusted men in support."

"At this point, Steve does not trust anyone associated with the I.S.A., and if I'd been through what he has, I wouldn't blame him. Right now, we don't know how many of our agents may be involved in this. It may just be the one who's stealing the devices, or he may have some help."

Thiessen was quiet for a moment, and Shane heard pages turning as his commander went through his list of contacts. "All right, there's a man in Weston that I've used to create necessary documents before. He's very good and he's near enough to your place that, with a little luck and a hefty price, he should be able to get them to you on a rush basis. I'll explain that you need it immediately, but like I said, it'll probably be expensive."

"I'll be happy to pay for it," Shane interjected quickly. "My priority is getting Steve out of here, so the cost is no problem."

"All right. I'll fax everything we have on Steve Johnson to him, and put him to work. He'll deliver them directly to your house, and I'll make certain he understands that time is of the essence. Fifteen years, you say? What kind of age enhancing needs to be done to the pictures?"

"Not much, actually," Shane said with a note of envy in his voice. "Once he has a haircut and a shave, he should look much the same now as he did then, so a small amount of computer aging should be sufficient."

"One of the lucky ones, ay? Although I must add that except for the salt and pepper in your hair, you still look quite good yourself. My daughter thinks you're smashing, in fact."

Shane cringed. He had met Thiessen's oldest daughter, a divorcee, at a non-I.S.A. function, and the woman had stuck to him like gum on the bottom of his shoe. Thiessen had made it known that he would welcome any attention Shane might bestow on the woman, but while she was not unattractive, she was not -

He shrugged aside the thought before the name Kim could enter his thoughts. Dwelling on the past served no purpose except to bring about regrets. "Well, I hate to cut this short, but I need to get going. I need to make some preparations to fly him out of here."

"They may be watching your plane, knowing that you'll do just that," Thiessen cautioned.

"Damn it, you're right. I'm going to have to find another airplane at a different airport."

"Don't worry about that. I'll have one sent over. Where would you like it to be waiting?"

Shane studied the area map on his wall, then said, "There's a private airstrip in Weston. Instead of having the forger drive all the way to my house, why don't you have him deliver the documents directly to the airplane? It'll be waiting for us, then."

"Consider it done. The plane will be a white Cessna Citation X. It'll get you to New York with no trouble, and you can refuel there."

"All right. I need both it and the identification as soon as possible. Steve is getting cleaned up right now, but I want to leave as soon as possible. The possibility exists that we may have to make a run for it."

"I'll have it on its way as soon as we hang up."

"I owe you one," Shane said, gratefully.

"Just help me catch those guys, and we'll consider it even."


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: I stopped watching the show after Steve's death, so although I know that the Hortons purchased the house from Kayla, I don't know how long they kept it. For this story, it is imperative that the house was sold at some point.

Chapter 19

Parked in an area outside the main gate of the estate house that was protected from view by tall shrubbery, Carlton adjusted the frequency on the I.S.A. monitoring equipment that Vaughn had somehow managed to acquire, attempting to pick up the telephone conversation that was occurring at that moment inside the Donovan mansion. The only sound he heard through the headset was static. Either something was wrong with the high-tech equipment, or Donovan was jamming the frequency with his own I.S.A. devices. He suspected the latter, and as he considered the likelihood of that, he heard his cell phone ringing.

Picking up his mobile phone, he said, "Carlton."

"Have you reached Donovan's estate?"

It was Vaughn, no doubt wanting a progress report. "Yes. We haven't been able to confirm it, but we're pretty sure Johnson is inside the house. Donovan has made several phone calls, but the listening device you gave us hasn't been able to pick up any of the conversations, or the numbers of the people he's calling."

Vaughn was silent for several moments, contemplating the information he had just been given. Rising from his chair, he paced slowly to the window, and gazed out at the darkened landscape. "Very clever, Shane," he said with a surprising note of admiration. "He's enacted his jamming devices to prevent us listening in. I would say that is pretty clear evidence that Johnson is in there."

"That's what we thought as well. What do you want us to do?"

"You are certain that Donovan has been making phone calls?"

"Yes. Jennings is in a position where he can see him through a narrow gap where the curtains don't meet."

"Would he contact the I.S.A.?" Vaughn mused, paying no attention to Carlton's response. "Possibly. But my guess is, he'll get Johnson out of the country first, and then worry about details once they're in the air, when they're in a place where they can relax for a while without our attempts to get around their security. I'd be willing to bet my eye teeth he contacted Roman Brady to make arrangements on his end."

"We have Harding watching the garage in case Donovan decides to drive him out our here. What else do you want us to do?"

"Jennings and Harding are to remain on-site, but I want you to go to the airport, straightaway. Donovan will be using his private jet to get Johnson out of England, and it will need to be fueled and readied. I will call you back with the location and a description of his plane. I want you to be there ahead of them. Apprehend the pilot using the dart gun if you must. Do whatever it takes to keep that plane from taking off before backup can arrive, but do so in a way that does not announce your presence to Donovan if he manages to get past Harding."

Carlton grimaced, dreading the thought of having to dart the pilot, but he made no objection. "Anything else?"

Vaughn paused briefly, recalling the layout of Donovan's property. "I want Jennings to find a position where he can observe both the front entrance and the side entrance of the house. Tell Harding to remain at the garage. Donovan keeps all his vehicles there. He should be able to see the rear entrance from his position. If they should somehow make it to the vehicles, they are to notify you straight away to be on the lookout for them."

"Should they attempt to apprehend them?"

"If they have a clear shot, yes. Disable Donovan first, since he will most likely be armed with a weapon. Call me back when you know more, or if the situation changes."

"We'll be in touch," Carlton replied, then terminated the call.

Vaughn stood at the window for several more moments, listening to the tone of the dead line, his mind working feverishly. If Johnson was inside Donovan's house, then he would be unable to leave without his men knowing about it. But the possibility that Donovan had called Roman Brady intrigued him. Clearly, preparations would have to be made for Johnson's arrival, and who better than a former I.S.A. agent? Not to mention, Johnson's brother in law. If they somehow managed to get past Carlton and get the plane into the air, it would be beneficial to know precisely where it was directed to land.

With his thumb, he disconnected the empty line, then dialed another number.

"Owens," said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Have you found Kayla Johnson yet?" Vaughn asked.

Owens hesitated briefly. A full day of following her around Salem had yet to produce results, and Vaughn would not be happy about the delay. "Yes. I've been following her all day, but I haven't been able to get her alone yet. She's always with other people, or in populated areas."

"Where is she now?"

"She's in her car driving around Salem."

"Something has come up, and I don't have time to put another man on this, so you're going to have to do it. I want you to temporarily abandon the surveillance of Mrs. Johnson. Instead, I want you to follow the brother, Roman Brady. His information should be in the packet I sent you the other day."

Owens eased the SUV onto the side of the road, then opened the folder and thumbed through the pages until he found the photograph and statistics on Roman Brady. "Yes, I have it right here. He's the chief of police, so he's high profile," he cautioned.

"All I want you to do is follow him. I want to know where he goes, who he speaks to, and anything else he does, no matter how insignificant it may seem."

"How long should I follow him before returning to Mrs. Johnson?"

"The rest of the day should be sufficient. Get back on Mrs. Johnson in the morning. Right now, Brady is the important one."

* * *

Kayla had spent a pleasurable afternoon visiting old friends before returning to the Pub, and when pulled into the parking lot, she saw Roman's car waiting in one of the family spaces at the rear of the lot.

Her heart leaped with the expectation that Roman was probably there with some answers for her regarding the damage to the old house. There might be no answers at all, just random vandalism by kids or transients, but she suspected it was something more. The holes in the yard and the pried up floorboards suggested they had been looking for something. Just what, however, she could not imagine.

After parking the vehicle in the family spaces beside Roman's car, she crossed the parking lot to the front door and cut through the dining room instead of using the rear entrance. As she did, she did not notice the black SUV that was parked in the lot of a business across the street, where the driver had full view of the front door. She also did not notice, and neither did the person in the black car, that a silver sedan pulled into the pub's parking lot, and that its occupant was keeping an eye on both her and the black vehicle.

Entering the dining area, she found her oldest sibling seated at the bar sipping a cup of coffee and visiting with their father.

Shawn, standing behind the counter, nodded toward the door. "There she is."

Turning around on the stool, Roman smiled in greeting. "Hey, I was just about to give up on you, sis." He turned over his wrist to glance at his watch, and gave a barely perceptible flinch when he saw the time. "I've been here for twenty minutes waiting to talk to you."

"Sorry," she said, placing her purse on the counter and taking the empty stool beside him. "I know you're busy with other things, but I didn't think I'd hear from you so soon. I stopped to visit with a few friends."

"Well, I knew this was important to you, so I pulled some files and found out some interesting information on your old house."

She leaned forward in anticipation. "Like what?"

"You're not going to like it," he warned. He cast a quick glance around the pub, where only a few customers remained, none within hearing distance. The evening rush had not yet begun. "When you moved to California, I remembered that you sold the house to Mickey and Maggie Horton." When she nodded, he continued, "Maggie couldn't remember the name of the person who bought it when they eventually sold it, so I checked the records and found out that it was purchased by a man named Frederico Vitela. Does it sound familiar to you?"

"No. Should it?"

Roman glanced around again, and Kayla noticed that Shawn was doing the same thing, an automatic response to his son's caution, even though he knew no more than his daughter about any implications it might have.

"I spoke to Maggie, and she never actually met him. The transaction was handled entirely by an agent. She did, however mention that he was not a local person. Supposedly, he claimed to have an interest in historical homes, so she thought it would be the perfect home for him." He lowered his voice even farther. "I probably would not have been suspicious except that something about the name rang a few bells in my distant memory. There was something familiar about it, something I just couldn't quite bring to the surface, but it kept nagging at me. So on a hunch, I dug a little deeper and found out that Vitela is one of Lawrence Alamain's many pseudonyms."

Kayla felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her, and an intense heat rose to her cheeks at the thought of that hated man purchasing hers and Steve's house. "Alamain was the one who bought our house? _ALAMAIN_? Had I known that, I would have bought it back myself rather than allowing that . . . that . . . " She made an annoyed, wordless sound in her throat. "I can't think of anything bad enough to call him! And I can't believe the Hortons would sell our house to _HIM_!"

He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, urging restraint. "Easy, Kay," he cautioned. "They had no way of knowing his true identity, and we may be jumping to conclusions. Vitela is a legitimate name, so there is a slight chance that it may not be Alamain at all."

Even Shawn looked doubtful. "That would be a whopper of a coincidence, though, don't you think?"

Roman nodded. "I'm afraid so."

Kayla was still furious, her face flushed with rage, and her hands clenching and unclenching, as if she could strangle him personally. "It just makes me so damn mad to think of anyone from that family living in our house after what that man did to Steve!"

"I know it does, but given the fact that we suspect Alamain had something to do with Steve's death, it raises some far-reaching questions. Like Pop said, this is a whopper of a coincidence."

"Are you saying there might be something about the house that is tied to Steve's murder?"

"I don't know, but think about it. The man we think was behind Steve's murder just happens to have a pseudonym that is the same name as the man who purchased the house that you and Steve lived in. I looked into the vandalism, and it happened years ago. The investigating officer thought that the nature of the damage suggested that the vandals were looking for something."

Kayla nodded in agreement. "Boards pried up, holes dug in the yard."

"Exactly. That got me wondering. You remained in the house for a little while after Steve died. During that time, did you notice anything out of the ordinary? Anyone hanging around the property? Strange phone calls? Hang up calls?"

"That was a long time ago," she reminded him. "And it was also the darkest period of my entire life. I really wasn't of a mind to notice anything that might be considered odd. I don't' recall any unusual phone calls or anything like that."

"You mentioned that a deck had been added. Maggie said they didn't conduct any construction while they were there, so it had to have happened during the time that Vitela owned the property. I checked with the local construction and home improvement companies, and not one of them had any record of putting in a bid on the project, much less actually building it."

"So what does that mean? He went with an out-of-town company?"

"Or no one at all. Actually, if the house was purchased for the sole purpose of looking for something hidden on the property, it could be that the construction on the deck was a front for something else. The neighbors would noticed strange cars coming and going, but no one would think anything about a construction company van, even if those were not known companies. See what I mean?"

"So you think he had a few vans decorated with fake company logos to cover the fact that he was actually searching the property for something?" Shawn asked. "Buying a house just to look for something is a pretty expensive way of going about it."

"He's an Alamain," Roman reminded him. "He has the funds to do pretty much whatever he wants, and use any method he wants. It would be a good way to fly under our radar."

"But the work was done, or at least some of it," Kayla pointed out. "He did add a deck and install a trellis on both sides. Not very good quality, but still . . ."

"You think there's no one on Alamain's payroll capable of doing some actual construction simultaneously with whatever else they were doing there? It's a terrific cover. Let the neighbors see the progress of the work being done, while elsewhere in the house, they're searching for whatever it is they're after, the true reason they're there. No one would suspect a thing."

"The deck was poorly constructed," Kayla mused. "Not at all what I would have expected from a professional job."

"It's a big yard, lots of distance between houses. And you mentioned the trellis, probably constructed to hide the sloppy workmanship."

They were quiet for several moments, thinking about that. It was Shawn, who had been standing close to them methodically wiping out a beer mug until it was polished to a sparkling gleam, who pointed out a possible flaw. "You're thinking this Vitela person or Alamain, if it was him, killed Steve expecting that Kayla would sell the house? He couldn't possibly have expected that. Many widows remain in their family home. And she sold it to the Hortons."

Roman lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "He may have had other ideas about how to get Kayla or even the Hortons off the property. This is all speculation, anyway. We don't have any facts, yet, except that someone named Vitela purchased the house, that the name is one of Alamain's pseudonyms, and that some renovations were done around the time the house was vandalized. I'm just tossing out some possible explanations. We'll keep digging."

"Does he still own the house?" Kayla asked.

"I asked one of my desk clerks to check with the records, but we don't have an answer yet. She hasn't come across any documents showing a change of ownership. However, it appears the house was abandoned years ago. I'm not sure he ever intended to move in at all."

"So why buy the house and then just abandon it?" Shawn wondered. "Did they find what they were looking for?"

Roman shrugged. "No idea."

"And it's just been sitting there empty all this time?" Kayla asked, then without waiting for a response, asked, "The neighbors didn't notice them digging in the yard? They had to have wondered about that."

"Not necessarily," Roman said. "A lot of people explore their yards with metal detectors, especially when an old house is involved. The neighbor behind me pokes around his yard all the time."

She sighed and settled back on her stool again. Absently, she pushed her purse back and leaned her arm on the edge of the bar. "I guess you're right. There were spots all over the back yard where they had dug a hole, and then partially filled it in again. I stepped in one. It was just a sunk-in area, like it hadn't been filled in completely. It was hidden by the tall grass, and I didn't see it."

"Areas that have been dug up tend to settle," Shawn said. "I gardened for years, so I know how the soil reacts to changes like that. It looks smooth when you fill it in, but the disturbed soil has air pockets in it, and after it rains, it starts to sink in."

Roman nodded in agreement. "The front yard was undisturbed, according to the report. I guess they didn't want to call too much attention to themselves, or else they didn't expect it, whatever 'it' is, to be in front. According to the investigative report, most of their efforts were inside the house. Some of the floorboards had been pulled up, and there were holes bashed in the walls. Some of the furniture had been destroyed or damaged."

"Some of that furniture was original to the house," Kayla said, sadly. "Steve and I restored it, and when we added new pieces, we were careful to maintain the integrity of the style. It sickens me to think of that historic old house being treated with such disrespect."

"What do you suppose they were looking for?" Shawn asked.

"I don't have a clue, Pop." Roman replied. "That remains a mystery." He turned to his sister again. "Kayla, can you think of anything in that house that might have had value, something he could have wanted?"

Kayla shook her head. "Steve and I explored every inch of that house. The only thing of interest was that old trunk in the attic that was full of Civil War memorabilia, but those were more of an American historical value than a monetary one."

"What kind of memorabilia?"

"Things you'd expect to see in a museum. A Union officer's uniform, a sword, a pistol, some Victorian-era ladies' dresses, old quilts, a couple of diaries -"

"Did you read the diaries?"

"Steve and I read them together."

"Was there any mention of something of value hidden on the property? Gold, perhaps, or cash?"

"No. It just told the love story of a southern woman's romance with a Union officer. They eventually married when the war was over, and as far as I know, lived happily ever after."

"What about antique jewelry? Stocks and bonds?"

"No, there wasn't anything like that. There may have been a locket or a broach, or maybe a pocket watch, but nothing of much value. Certainly nothing that would justify the cost of buying the house in order to search for it."

Roman sighed, frustrated. "I can't help but think there is something in that house that he wanted, but what was it and how did he find out about it?"

"He must have wanted it awful bad, or else it was of huge value to go to that much trouble and expense," Shawn said.

"Like I said, Steve and I explored every inch of that house," Kayla told him. "I just can't imagine what anyone could think they'd find there."

"Then we've hit a brick wall." He glanced at his watch, and this time he started noticeably. "I need to pick up Marlena. Her car's in the shop." He slid off the stool. "If you think of anything, give me a call, no matter how insignificant it seems and no matter what the hour. At this point, anything could be relevant."

"I will," she promised. "Thanks for taking an interest in this, Roman. It means a lot to me."

He smiled. "Any time, Sis. You've stumbled on quite a mystery here, and I can't help but think that when we find out what they wanted, we might find out why Steve was murdered."

Kayla sat thoughtfully for several minutes after her brother had gone. Was there some bit of obscure knowledge locked inside her subconscious that was struggling to break free? Something that might tell her why Steve had been murdered? Perhaps Marlena was right. Perhaps there was a physiological need, buried deep in her mind, to find how why her husband had been so cruelly taken from her.


	20. Chapter 20

Hoping Marlena would not be too annoyed with him for being late, Roman jogged across the Pub's parking lot, edging his way between parked vehicles as he hurried toward his car at the rear of the lot. In one of the vehicles, a silver sedan, he noticed a man seated in the driver's seat wearing dark sunglasses and talking into a cell phone, which was pressed against his ear. Casually, he and the man glanced at one another through the windshield.

Roman's eyes narrowed slightly, experiencing a vague sense of recognition, and he slowed his pace, thinking the other man would respond to a mutual impression of some past association between them, but instead he immediately turned away without interrupting his phone call. Although he was unable to see the man's eyes, the abrupt gesture hinted at a shared recognition and a desire to avoid contact.

At any other time, Roman's first instinct would have been to tap on the car window and ask him to state his business, but Shane's warning about making contact was explicit. He was to go about his business as if nothing was going on. His former brother in law would explain when he arrived, so for now he must oblige without question.

After a brief hesitation, struggling to avoid acting on his police instincts, he continued toward his car, parked one row behind the silver sedan. Before he reached it, he pressed the button on the automatic door lock, and heard the sound of the locks disengaging, but as he opened the driver's door, he glanced at the other driver, still beset by that indistinct sense of familiarity, and was certain the other man was watching him in the rear view mirror.

With all of his senses now on high alert, Roman got into the car and started the ignition, then shifted it into reverse and backed out of the parking place. All the while, he kept a wary eye on his mirrors as he pulled out onto the street and accelerated toward the clinic where Marlena worked.

The silver car did not follow, and he began to breathe a bit easier until he noticed a black SUV that had been parked on the curb just outside the parking lot, pull into the lane behind him.

Roman drove for several miles, maintaining a constant speed except at stop lights, and frequent, discreet glances into his rear view mirrors indicated that the black vehicle was still with him.

Careful not to make any movements that might be interpreted as evasive, Roman kept his attention discreetly on his rear view mirror as he turned on his blinker and made a right turn onto the street that would take him to the clinic. The black SUV slowly followed him around the corner.

"Not good," he muttered to himself, but he kept the car at a normal speed as he proceeded toward the clinic, making no indication that he was in any way suspicious.

When he reached the clinic, he turned into the parking lot and glanced in the side mirror as the black car slowed, then passed the entrance and tucked itself neatly between two cars that were parked on the curb.

Marlena was watching for him in the lobby just inside the building's main entrance, and as he pulled up to the edge of the sidewalk, she stepped outside and strode to the car.

"Hi, handsome," she said as she opened the door and slid gracefully into the seat beside him. "Going my way?"

"As a matter of fact, I just happen to be," he replied, then leaned across the seat to kiss her hello before revving the engine and easing back onto the street again.

"You're late," she said accusingly, but with a smile that affirmed her acceptance that police work was not always on a schedule.

"Sorry," he replied, inconspicuously shifting his eyes toward the black vehicle as he passed it, but could not see inside it through the tinted windows. He was certain, however, that he could feel the eyes of the driver looking directly at him from behind the tinted glass, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled in reaction. "I had to stop at the pub to see Kayla about something. It ran longer than I intended."

"Really?" she asked, interested to hear her husband's perception of his sister's mood. "I visited with her over lunch yesterday. How did she seem to you?"

"Fine."

"Just fine?" she asked, smiling broadly at his simple vocabulary.

"Seemed to be," he continued in a rather absent fashion, as if his mind was on something else. "She went out to see her old house this afternoon, and found it had been abandoned and vandalized."

"That's terrible," she exclaimed. "I know how much she loved that house. She told me she's been driving around town seeing all the places that she and Steve used to go, so it figures she would also go there."

"Mm-hmm. Ma mentioned the same thing. Not sure it's a good idea, but if that's what she wants to do . . . ."

"How did she react to the condition of the house?"

"She's pretty fired up about it. You know Kayla when she has a cause. I told her I'd look into it."

She was watching him closely, realizing that something was amiss. Ordinarily, breaking and entering and vandalism was not handled by the chief of police. "Because she's your sister, or because there is something about it that is bothering you?"

His hesitation was brief. Either her perception was outstanding, or he was an open book. "Both." His eyes darted into the rear view mirror again without moving his head. It was a discreet way of monitoring the road behind him that would not signal to anyone else that he was alert.

"Roman, I've been in this car for less than two minutes and that's the third time you've looked in the mirror," she said. "What is so interesting back there?" She started to turn in her seat to look behind them.

"Don't look back!" he warned in a voice so unusually sharp that she flinched. "We're being followed," he explained.

He heard her intake of breath as she processed this revelation. As the wife of a police officer and former I.S.A. agent, she was familiar with espionage and conspiracy and other dangerous situations, but it was not something she had expected to encounter on what was supposed to have been a pleasant evening out with her husband. "Are you sure?" she asked.

"It's been back there since I left the Pub, and it waited on the curb while I picked you up at the clinic, and it's made every turn we have, so yeah, I'm sure."

She fought the almost overpowering urge to turn around, but managed to keep her eyes focused on him instead. "What are we going to do? Please tell me you have a plan."

"Not really," he admitted.

"Why don't we call for help?" she suggested. "We could call for assistance, have the guy pulled over and questioned."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he said, regretfully.

She stared at him, astonished. "You can't? Why not?"

"At this point, and until we know what he's after, I can't do anything that will make him suspicious." He reached across the seat and took her hand. "I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I don't think he intends to harm us. I think he's just interested in where I might lead him."

"I don't understand what that means."

"I know. For now, we're going to go to Shenanigans for dinner, just like we've planned. After that, I'm not sure yet."

"Dinner!" she echoed, incredulously. "Are you kidding me?"

"We have to maintain an illusion of normalcy. Until I know precisely what they're after, we don't want to do anything that will tip them off to the fact that we are aware of them. Once we get inside the restaurant, I'll have some time to think of something."

She was quiet for several moments, thinking, still trying to resist the urge to look behind at the person who was following. "Is this related to a case?" she asked.

Again, his hesitation was brief but discernable. "Not officially."

She continued to look at him, aware that he was being evasive. When he did not elaborate, she added, "But you do have some idea who they are."

"Not specifically. This is an unusual situation that I found out about just this afternoon, and I wish I could tell you more, Doc, but I can't. Not right now. Lives depend on it."

Pulling her eyes away from her husband, she glanced in the side mirror at the black SUV that remained three or four car lengths behind them. She gave a wistful sigh. "I hoped when you became chief of police that you could leave this cloak and dagger stuff behind."

He smiled affectionately. "For the most part, I have. But this is something else, not official Salem P.D. business, and I'll share it with you when I can."

"So you can't tell me for my own safety?"

"No. I can't tell you because I was asked to keep this to myself and pertinent people only, those related directly to the . . . . situation. Think of it in the way you would think of doctor-patient confidentiality."

She thought about that for a moment, not particularly comforted by it, but it was a comparison that she could relate too. "All right, I understand."

"Thanks, Doc," he said in a lighthearted voice, but inside he was gravely concerned. If the appearance of the black car was related to Shane's arrival the next morning, it indicated that the I.S.A. agent was involved in something potentially dangerous – and with Kimberly and Jeannie in town, he might be bringing it right to his family's doorstep.

When they reached the restaurant, Roman chose a conspicuous parking space where his car could be easily seen from the road, and as he hurried to the passenger door to open it for his wife, he was careful to avoid looking at the black SUV, but he focused attentively on it through his peripheral vision as it slowed and eased alongside the curb.

"Is it still there?" Marlena asked as she stepped out of the car. She attempted to give him a smile, but it fell short of her intent, looking more like a grimace.

"Yup. It's on the curb. Try to look natural," he added, noticing the apprehension on her attractive face.

"That's easy for you to say," she replied. "It's impossible to act natural knowing that every move we make is being watched by someone we can't even see!"

Sidestepping between her and the watcher in the SUV, Roman placed his arm around her, shielding her as much as possible from the menacing-looking vehicle, while making the gesture appear only as an expression of affection.

"Why did you park so close to the street?" she asked, nervously. "He can see the car quite clearly from there."

"That's the whole idea," he replied. "I want him totally focused on the car. I'm hoping he will assume that as long as our car is parked here, that we are inside. You mentioned that you're not hungry. Well, I'm not either, but I want him to think that we're in here enjoying a lengthy dinner. As for you and I, we're going to find another way out of here. I'm sure Chris won't object to us utilizing his back door. All we need to do is find alternative transportation."

Marlena felt a tremendous relief wash over her. Her husband was planning ahead, securing an escape route for them, so she trustingly followed him to the door of the restaurant. When they neared it, he stepped ahead of her and reached out to open it.

As he opened the door, Roman stood back to allow his wife to enter first, shifting his eyes toward the black car without moving his head.

On the street, the driver of the car, apparently believing that the Bradys would be inside for a while, executed a U-turn and moved to the curb on the other side of the street, where the unknown observer could more easily watch the front door as well as the car.

The casual restaurant had long been a favorite of Roman and Marlena, one they visited on a regular basis, but this time they did not seek out a seat. Instead, they went through the dining room to the bar.

Mason, the bartender, looked up as he filled a mug with draft from the decorative handle of the tap, and smiled. "Hey, Chief, how's it going?"

"Is Chris working here tonight?"

"Yeah, you're in luck. First night this week he's been here. I think he's back in the office doing some paperwork."

"I need to see him. Tell him it's urgent."

"Sure thing." He passed the mug to a server, then disappeared through the door into the restaurant's offices. He returned a few moments later with Chris Kositchek, who joined Roman and Marlena at the end of the bar with a smile of greeting.

"Roman, what's up?"

Roman cast a sweeping glance around the room, pausing briefly on the young couple that had just come in the door, before continuing on, missing nothing in the large room. Satisfied that everyone inside the room were merely paying customers, he turned to face Chris and leaned onto the bar to bring his face closer to that of the owner.

"I'm sorry to have to ask this, Chris, but I need a huge favor," he said, keeping his voice low.

Realizing that this was police business, Chris casually leaned his elbow on the bar to make it appear they were merely conversing. "Sure. What can I do for you?" he asked, his voice at a pitch equal to Roman's.

"Doc and I were tailed on our way over here. He's still out there, parked across the street where he can be sure to see us leave."

"Want me to call the police?"

"No. I want him to think that Doc and I are in here having dinner, but I don't want him apprehended yet."

"Any idea who it is?"

"Not specifically. The bottom line is I have a very important errand to run, and I don't want to be followed. I need to lose him, and that means borrowing a car, preferably one that is parked somewhere off the lot, so he can't see us get to it. I hate to ask, but I wondered if maybe one of your employees would mind –"

"You can take mine," Chris interrupted, promptly, hooking his thumb over his shoulder toward the back alley. "It's parked just outside the back door. You can leave through the side alley and circle the block. He'll never see you."

"That' perfect. What time do you close up?"

"Well, its Friday night, so we're open until midnight."

"I'll have the car back before then."

Chris fished the keys to the car out of his pocket and placed it on the counter. After a quick glance toward the diners, Roman scooped it up and tucking it into his own pocket. "He may still be there when you come back. What if he follows you then?"

"By then, it won't matter. I have a matter of business I need to attend to, and once that's done, he can follow me all over town if he wants." He gave Chris's arm a friendly slap. "I owe you one."

"Anytime."

After one final sweep of the room, Roman and Marlena went down a short hallway past the restrooms to the delivery entrance. Moving ahead of his wife, Roman opened the door and leaned out, making a cautious sweep of the employee parking lot. His eye lingered briefly on the head of the alley by which they would make their escape, then, satisfied that it was empty, he led the way down the steps and walked directly to Chris's mid-sized car. He opened the passenger door first and waited while Marlene settled herself into the bucket seat, then he maintained a wary vigilance as she circled to the driver door and got in beside her. The doors were locked first, then he inserted the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.

"Where are we going?" Marlena asked. "You told Chris that you had a matter of business to attend."

"I do, and you're not going with me. I'm going to drop you off at Sami's for a while, and then I'll pick you up again after it's done."

Marlena was staring at him from across the seat as he eased the vehicle out of the parking space and put it into drive. "No, I don't like the idea of going to Sami's. What if we lead those guys right to her door?"

He guided the car slowly down the narrow alley toward the street, then checked for traffic before pulling the borrowed car into the flow of traffic. "He won't be following us, because his attention is still on my car and the front door of the restaurant. We should have at least an hour or more before he starts to get jittery and come looking for us. By then, my business should be finished, and we'll come back for the car."

"I just don't want to endanger anyone else, especially one of our children."

"I don't either, but Sami's place is safest because it's a high rise apartment building that always has a lot of people coming and going. From what I've been told, these people are after someone else. They're only interested in me because they think I'll lead them to him."

"Lead you to whom?" she asked, but when he didn't immediately answer, she said, "Never mind. I know; you can't tell me."

They rode in silence for a while as Roman took a very round-about way to the apartment where their daughter Samantha lived. He kept a sharp eye on the rear view mirrors and carefully noted every vehicle that came near, but there was no sign of the black car.

"He's not back there," he announced, much to Marlena's relief. "I'm sure he's still at Shenanigan's, watching my car."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

As they neared the high rise apartment complex in which Sami resided, Roman first circled the block as a final precaution, but no one followed. Satisfied that it was safe, he pulled into the lot and eased the car alongside the curb near the main entrance, but before Marlena could open her door, he placed a hand on her arm to stop her.

"Don't let on about the real reason why you've come to visit. Just tell her I dropped you off on the way to a meeting. It's the truth."

"You never told me where you're going."

"I know. I've been asked to make some arrangements. When that's done, I'll be back. I'll walk you to the elevator."

They got out of the car, and with Roman keeping an alert eye to their surroundings, they crossed the parking lot and entered the building.

* * *

Darkness had fallen by the time Roman reached his destination, and it became more difficult to distinguish the makes and models of the cars on the road behind him, so it was with a cautious eye on the rear view mirror, that he turned off the headlights on the borrowed car and pulled into a small neighborhood park around the corner from the home of his half-brother, Bo. With the car dark, he located a parking spot well away from the street lights and out of sight of the neighborhood houses, deep in the shadows of a small grove of trees. Shutting off the engine, he waited silently for several moments to see if anyone pulled in behind him or stopped against the curb.

Throughout the afternoon and early evening, after his mysterious phone call from Shane Donovan, he had pondered his various sources, men and women he trusted to carry out Shane's request for transportation from the secluded airstrip, and kept coming back to his own brother. Though brash and often careless in his youth, Bo had matured into a man who was totally dependable and capable of prudence and good judgment in cases of extreme need. He trusted Bo as he trusted no one else and knew that he would get the job done.

During the drive to Bo's neighborhood, he had repeatedly referred to his rear view mirrors, made many turns and took various side streets to shake off anyone who might be following, but so far there was no indication that he was being tailed. It appeared that the mysterious follower he had picked up at the pub was still at Shenanigans waiting for him and Marlena to finish their dinners.

With the exception of a raccoon prowling the trash cans for discarded food left behind by picnickers, the park was empty. Opening the car door, Roman winced when the interior light illuminated him, and he quickly stepped out and closed and locked the sedan. Still scanning the area with a cautious eye, he entered the picnic area, moving toward the shrubs and trees from which the coon had emerged. It had found part of a hot dog, and watched him warily as he passed, but, typical of urban wildlife, it showed little fear of him. Ignoring it, he slipped into the trees, stepped across the footbridge that spanned a narrow stream, and made his way down an easement between the houses until he reached the end of the block.

He paused there to view the street from behind a utility box, shrinking down when he saw a car turn the corner at the end of the block and approach at a slow rate of speed. It proceeded past his hiding place, and he watched its taillights until it turned into a driveway a few doors down. A moment later, a woman stepped out carrying a bag of groceries followed by a talkative young girl who kept up a steady dialogue as she followed her weary mom into the house.

Roman waited until they had gone inside before crossing the street to the house owned by Bo and his wife, Hope, but instead of going directly to the door, he squatted down between two cars that were parked on the curb next door, and observed the house for several moments. Hope's car was in the driveway, but Bo's car was not visible. It could either be in the garage, or he might not be home. That would make this a wasted trip.

The house appeared to be dark, both upstairs and down, and he knew it was possible that his brother and sister in law had gone out for the evening. Then he saw a flicker of light that changed in illumination, and realized that someone was watching television in the living room.

With a satisfied nod that someone was home, Roman turned his attention to the front porch. A decorative security light shown down on the front door, brightening the entire porch and making it visible to anyone passing by. Rejecting the idea of knocking on the door for that reason, he jogged across the driveway and made his way to the rear of the house. Remaining in the shadows, he crept along the patio, and knocked on the back door.

Inside the house, Bo and Hope, seated cozily together on the comfortable sofa, exchanged surprised glances, then turned automatically toward the kitchen, even though they could not see the visitor for the curtains across the door's large window.

"The back door?" Hope asked, worriedly as she removed her feet from the coffee table and sat up straighter.

The knock on the back door was repeated, louder this time, and Bo exchanged an uneasy glance with his wife before he stood up to answer it.

Hope picked up the remote and pressed the mute button, silencing the television while her husband stood up and walked into the kitchen, turning on the light as he went. He paused to pull back the curtain to see the identity of the visitor, then as he dropped the curtain back into place, he called over his shoulder, "It's Roman."

"Roman?" Hope repeated, getting up to join him in the kitchen.

Bo unlocked the door, but as he grasped the door knob to open it, Roman opened it from the outside before his younger brother could accomplish the task.

"Hey, Bro, I didn't hear you pull up," Bo said as Roman slipped quickly inside, forcing Bo to take a surprised step backward. Turning, Roman pushed the door closed behind him and took a precautionary peek through the curtains, a gesture which alerted the younger brother to the fact that something was wrong.

"Sorry for the cloak and dagger entrance," he apologized as he turned to face them. "I couldn't risk being seen. Are you two alone?"

"Yeah. It's Friday night. Shawn D is out on a date," Bo replied. "What's up? Is this police business?"

"No. This is completely unofficial, but high priority. I got a phone call earlier today from Shane Donovan. He's flying into Salem tomorrow morning at about 7:00 local time, and I need someone to pick him up. I offered, but I have an early meeting at 8:00 and I can't be sure I'll get back in time for it. He thinks it best that I do not alter my routine in case someone is watching. And as it turns out, that is the case."

"Sounds serious," Bo said with a frown. "Any idea who it is?"

"None, but he followed me from the Pub to Marlena's office and then to Shenanigans. We slipped out the back door and borrowed Chris's car. I dropped her off at Sami's. I hate to get you two involved in this, whatever 'this' is, but I need someone I can trust to pick him up. It would be best if you both went, so that one of you can ride shotgun."

Bo glanced at Hope, who nodded her agreement. "Sure, we'll go to the airport for you, and -"

Roman was shaking his head negatively, and when Bo stopped talking, he said, "It won't be the airport. They probably have people there waiting for him to arrive, so I checked around to find an alternate site, and remembered that old abandoned crop dusting place outside town."

"I have no idea what place you're talking about."

"Good. If you don't know about it, it's a sure bet they don't either. It's about 20 miles outside the city limits. Back during the Depression era, some guy owned a couple of crop dusting planes and built a runway and a cheap hangar to keep them. The hangar blew down back in the '50's and he closed up shop, but the runway is still there. No one has ever done anything with the property except to sometimes run some cattle there, although I think it's probably still owned by the family. It's well away from Salem, so it should be safe. Like I said, I hate to involve you, but I can't think of anyone I trust more than the two of you."

"Of course we'll take care of it," Hope assured him.

"Don't tell anyone, not even Shawn. No one, and I mean no one, must know that Shane is coming. He stressed that this is very important. Keep your eye on your rear view mirrors, and if a car seems to be back there longer than it should be, alter your course and do what you can to lose him. Keep your weapons close and stay alert. He told me that a man's life is on the line, so secrecy is crucial."

"Will do," Bo promised. "Do you have a location for this runway?"

Roman withdrew a folded map of the Salem area from the hip pocket of his jeans and spread it out on the kitchen table. "It's located right here," he said, placing his finger on a place on the map. "This is a dirt road that runs off the county road. The entrance is an open gate with a cattle grate. I haven't been out there in years, so I have no idea what the lay of the land is now, but I think you can expect it to be overgrown with brush."

Bo and Hope both leaned over the map, their eyes studying the position that Roman was indicating. "I'm sure we can find it," Bo said.

"When you get there, go over a low ridge and you'll see the runway. Stop the car there and wait. When you see the plane, flash your headlights twice to let them know you're there to pick them up. That's the signal that all is well."

"Them?"

"Yes. Shane will have someone with him, someone he says is in grave danger. That's all he told me. I don't know who this guy is, but my guess is he's probably a witness or an informant, clearly someone he's trying to protect."

"That makes sense," Bo agreed.

"Once they're in the car, you'll be taking them to a safe house. The address is written on the back of the map. Don't discard the map where others can find it. I'll join you at the safe house as soon as I can."

"What's your take on this?" Bo asked. "What's Shane involved in?"

"I haven't a clue what this is all about," Roman replied. "But I trust Shane. He's promised to explain everything when he gets here. One last thing, Bo. Is your car in the garage?"

"Yeah. Whichever one of us has the newest car gets the garage. That's me, for the moment."

"Okay. Keep it there, and keep the garage door locked, just in case someone figures it out and has ideas about installing a tracking device." He glanced at his watch. "Gotta go. I need to pick up Marlena at Sami's and get Chris's car back to him."

"See you tomorrow, then," Bo said.

Roman gave his brother an affectionate slap on the arm. "Take care, Bo." Then he slipped out the back door and into the night.


	22. Chapter 22

"Mr. Donovan?" The soft query was spoken hesitantly, as if reluctant to disturb the man whose attention was immersed in his work, even though he had asked to be notified when her task was completed.

Seated inside the technologically secure I.S.A. room, Shane looked up from his computer where he had been reviewing the information supplied by Thiessen earlier in the day, and saw his housekeeper standing just outside the door, a stack of freshly washed and folded clothing in her hands. Although he had left the door open, she did not enter the room, for only a few people were permitted access to the highly sensitive area. Shane knew he was breaking protocol by even having the door open and unlocked, but the computer was positioned so that the monitor could not be seen from the door, and his loyal and dedicated staff always stopped outside the boundary of the room.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but Mr. Johnson's clothes have been washed and dried as you requested."

"Excellent. Thank you, Mrs. Foster. Leave them there, and I'll take them to Mr. Johnson myself. I will be flying out of the country tonight for an indefinite length of time, but I'll check in from time to time to see how things are going."

Like all of Shane's employees, Mrs. Foster was familiar with her employer's often spur-of-the-moment departures, and as a trusted employee, she and Hargrove would keep the household running in his absence. "Very good, sir." Leaving the clothes on a small table just outside the door, placed there as a receptacle for his requests, she quietly moved away to retire to her room for the night.

Shane glanced at his watch and flinched, startled by the amount of time that had passed since he had left Steve downstairs in the hidden room. He hoped his unexpected guest had managed to get some rest, but he also knew that the American must be growing anxious from lack of information.

It had been a very busy few hours. After seeing Steve safely to the hidden room, he had spoken once again with the operative in Salem, who had phoned to inform him that he was on the job, and that Kayla Johnson was safely under his observation. He had then called Thiessen to check the progress of their flight out of England, and had been informed that the pilot, aboard Thiessen's own private plane, had already left London and would be at the private airport within a half hour, where it would be waiting for them to board for their transatlantic flight. The identification documents were nearly completed, and would be delivered to the plane when it arrived. With the plans in motion, it was now time to let Steve know the details, and make the drive to the airport.

Shane powered down the laptop and turned it over to Hargrove with instructions to place it with the travel bag he had packed for the trip. The thumb drive was tucked into his pocket, and after securely locking the I.S.A. room, he scooped up Steve's clothes and trotted down the steps to the wine cellar.

When he reached the door, he rapped his knuckles on it to alert the man inside, then opened it and stepped inside.

Wearing the bathrobe and an impatient expression, Steve had been pacing like a caged lion. He stopped when the door opened, and the two men regarded one another from opposite sides of the room.

"Where the hell have you been?" Steve demanded. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten me! If I'd had my clothes, I'd have walked on outta here on my own!"

"Then it's a good thing you didn't have your clothes," Shane said, mildly, but he could not suppress his smile as he observed his guest. He looked and sounded more like the Steve Johnson he remembered. Perhaps a bit thinner, but that would resolve in time. "I've been making arrangements to fly you safely out of here and back to the States," he explained.

Placated, Steve moved toward him, eagerly. "Now we're talking! When do we leave?"

"Soon. Things like this take time and planning. Your kidnappers somehow managed to get you into the country covertly, and we're going to have to get you out the same way." He extended the clean clothes toward him. "I asked my housekeeper to wash and dry your clothes. I hope you don't mind that I took the liberty."

Steve accepted the clothes, and gave a slight nod. "Someone must have taken them while I was in the shower. I never knew they were gone until I stepped out and found this in their place."

"The qualities of a good house employee," Shane said, approvingly. "They perform their tasks inconspicuously and efficiently."

"Well, I didn't really like the feeling of naked vulnerability of finding myself with no clothes. I'm just glad she left the robe!"

Shane laughed, amiably. "You look more like your old self. I trust Hargrove did an acceptable job as barber."

"Yes, thank you," Steve replied. "I feel about ten pounds lighter, all of it hair."

""All right, Well, I'll leave you to get dressed. Meet me upstairs in the drawing room. That's the room we talked in before. You remember the way?"

"I'll find it," Steve said.

Shane started to leave, but when he reached the door, he turned back. "I heard from my man in Salem. Kayla's fine. She and Stephanie are staying with her parents, and he reported that she's been doing some sightseeing and visiting friends. He's been following her, keeping an eye on her."

The change in Steve's demeanor was immediate as a wave of relief washed over him. Kayla was with her family; they would protect her. "Thanks, man. The whole time I was on the road, I was so afraid those goons would get to her before I could get here."

"All right, then," Shane said. "I'll see you upstairs." Turning, he stepped through the secret door, allowing it to close behind him.

Shane trotted nimbly back up the stairs and went directly to the drawing room where he found Hargrove standing beside the window holding a pair of night vision binoculars which he had apparently been using to survey the grounds through a slight part in the drapes. The lights had been dimmed in an apparent attempt to make it more difficult to see inside, and when the employee turned to face him, his face was somber.  
"Sir, I think you had better have a look," he said, offering Shane the binoculars. "Out there beyond the gate. You can barely see it behind the shrubs."

With a sensation of dread creeping into his stomach, Shane went to the window and raised the binoculars to his eyes, carefully scanning the area outside the gate. It only took moments to spot the bumper of a vehicle, barely visible behind the neatly pruned shrubbery intended as a privacy screen.

"Damn it," he breathed. "How long has it been there?"

"I'm not certain, sir. I just spotted it a few minutes ago."

"Good job, Hargrove," Shane praised. "I've got to get Steve out of here right away. Go to the surveillance room and check the monitors in the stable. See if anyone is hiding in there. Be sure to check all the stalls, the tack room, and especially the feed room. I don't think anyone will be there, since no one outside this household knows about the tunnel, but I don't want to walk into a trap. Report back to me after you've done that."

"Right away, sir." Hargrove hurried out of the room to carry out his orders.

Shane peered through the binoculars again, studying the vehicle. It was impossible to determine any of the details through the slightly greenish tint caused by the night-vision, but it appeared to be dark in color. The bumper gleamed slightly in the faint moonlight.

"Who the hell are you?" he wondered aloud.

Moving the binoculars slowly, he panned the area as far as the window would allow, and just as he was about to lower them again, he caught an eerie eye-shine that was intensified by the illuminating qualities of the binoculars. Focusing intently, he was able to make out the profile of a human, crouched beside the iron fencing. Whoever he was, he was studying the house and the surrounding property with his own pair of binoculars, but he seemed to be focusing primarily on the study, the room from which Shane had made his phone calls.

As soon as Steve reached the doorway of the drawing room, he knew something was wrong. The room was nearly dark, and Shane, who had exchanged his business suit for jeans and a casual shirt, was standing beside the window using binoculars to observe something outside with rigid alertness and concentration.

Alarm rippled through Steve's body like an electrical current. "Is it them?" he asked, trying to control the panic in his voice.

"That would be my guess," Shane replied. "Hargrove said he noticed them a few minutes ago, so I don't think they've been there long." He passed the binoculars to Steve. "There's a vehicle near the gate hidden behind the shrubbery, and a man is crouched down near the pillar beside that old oak, far to the left. He's interested in the room I used to make my phone calls, which makes me think he saw me in there, but I don't think he knows he's been spotted."

"Any chance they were able to pick up your conversation?"

"No. As a precaution, I activated my jammers shortly after we arrived. He keeps looking around the property, like he's expecting someone to arrive."

"Me," Steve guessed. He raised the binoculars and adjusted the focus. The car was easy to find, for the bumper extended slightly beyond the hedgerow, but the man was a little harder to locate. He was crouched down to reduce his profile, and was slightly concealed by a tall stone fencing pillar. However, once spotted, he was very conspicuous and easily recognizable, and as Shane had stated, he was scanning the entire area with his binoculars. "That's Jennings," he said. "One of my guards. He's one mean son of a bitch."

"Do you know what his first name is?" Shane inquired. "I'd like to see if he is registered within the legitimate organization.

"No, they never revealed their first names to me; only the last, and to be honest I don't really even know if those were their real names or just names they were using for my benefit." He lowered the binoculars and handed them back to Shane. "Just so you know, man, I'm not going back there. They're gonna have to kill me. I know they intended to do just that once this operation they're planning was over, but if I'm going to die anyway, I'd rather die fighting. Free."

"I have no intention of letting it come to that," Shane assured him in a calm voice.

At that moment, Hargrove returned. "There is no one in the stable, sir. I also observed the surveillance cameras around the paddocks and garage. There is a man posted at the garage. He tripped the silent alarm when he entered it, but for the moment, at least, the entire stable area is clear."

"Good. They know we won't be riding out of here on horseback, so they're considering the stable insignificant. They haven't got you yet, Steve," he said. "I have a few tricks up my sleeve." He popped open a concealed hatch in a corner bookcase and retrieved a small Glock .22, which he handed to Steve. "I hope we don't have to use these, but it's better to even up the odds a bit, wouldn't you say?"

"Oh, I definitely say," Steve replied. He checked the weapon for ammunition, then tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. With the loaded gun in his possession, Steve understood that the Englishman intended to fight at his side, if it came to that, and the last bit of distrust he had retained toward Shane Donovan began to melt away. "So what do we do now?"

"Well, for starters, we're going back down to the wine cellar and through yet another secret door. There is a tunnel there that my grandfather built as an escape route at the start of World War II. He had survived World War I, and when war broke out again, he worried about an invasion. He was one of those who believed in being prepared. The tunnel was never used and only myself and a few of my staff know about it. And now you," he added. "The tunnel comes out in the feed room in the stable, which should be far enough from the house that they probably won't consider it reachable by us without them seeing. I just hope no heavy bags of feed have been placed on top of the hatch, or we might be in some trouble."

"I'll notify Dobson, sir," Hargrove offered. "I'll have him meet you at the stable and check to make certain the hatch is clear."

"Who's Dobson?" Steve asked.

"My driver," Shane explained. "He's going to take us to the plane, but if they're watching the garage, we may have to make other arrangements."

Hargrove handed him a flashlight, which he turned it on to verify that it worked, then paused a moment as a thought came to mind. "Tell Dobson not to go to the garage unless you tell him it's clear. As an alternative, he may have to drive us out in his personal vehicle."

"As long as it has wheels," Steve said.

Shane and Steve looked at each other for a long moment, and in that prolonged gaze Shane finally saw trust looking back at him. "All right, let's go."

Shane picked up the travel bag and his computer bag, then led the way out the drawing room door and down the corridor again, taking the same path he had taken previously, ending up in the wine cellar again. The secret door was opened, and they stepped inside the room.

Pausing only long enough to close the door behind them, Shane led the way into the lavatory and opened the double doors to the vanity cabinet. A few items such as soap and shampoo were moved aside, then he reached through the vanity cabinet to the very back of it which, by all appearance, looked merely like the back of the vanity. A moment later, Steve heard the creaking of ancient, rusted hinges as the concealed door was opened.

Bending at the waist, Steve placed his hands on his knees and viewed the small square opening in the back of the vanity, barely large enough for a man to squeeze through. With no light in the tunnel, it was pitch black, and the air was permeated with a dank musty smell reminiscent of a cave or perhaps an old museum.

"That's a pretty tight fit," Steve remarked.

"Yes, it is," Shane agreed. "And the older I get, the smaller it seems. However, smaller is less conspicuous." He turned on the flashlight and aimed the beam through the small door. Steve saw cinderblock walls, and was somewhat surprised, having expected earthen walls, like a cave or mine shaft.

"Just how safe is this?" he asked, doubtfully.

"Very," Shane replied. "It's constructed primarily of cinderblocks, with some heavy wooden shoring beams overhead. For my own safety and security, I've replaced them as needed and kept the walls and ceiling in good condition. The floor of the mansion is built on top of this network of rooms and cellars down here. This tunnel merely snakes along between the underground rooms."

Taking the lead, Shane bent over and dragged himself through the vanity's hatch on his belly, emerging through the other side into the tunnel. Steve passed the travel bag and the computer through to him, then followed, joining him in the dank, dark passageway. Once they were both through, Shane reached through to pull the vanity doors closed, then secured the hidden hatch behind them, hiding any evidence of their escape.

"You're just full of surprises," Steve said admiringly as they turned and started down the narrow passageway.

Shane sighed. "It's pretty sad when you don't trust the organization you work for. When I gave them the specs for the house to construct the I.S.A. safe room, I never told them about the hidden room or this tunnel. I withheld those, just in case. I've never had to use it, until now."

"Well, thank you for that," Steve said with gratitude. "What about your staff? Do you think these guys will cause trouble for them if they come in looking for us?"

Shane was unconcerned. With the flashlight in hand to illuminate their path, he led the way through the tunnel with Steve following directly behind. "I doubt if they'll come to the door because they won't want to tip me off that something is going on. But even if they do, the staff will tell them I'm not home. And if they forced their way inside and search the house, they won't find anything. At this point, they don't know you're here, and that should give us an advantage. If they think you're still on the road, they'll probably just sit outside my gate and wait for you to show up. It is my hope that we can be off the property before they know we've gone." He paused, thoughtfully. "If we had not encountered each other on the road and you had arrived instead on foot . . . ."

He didn't have to complete the statement, and Steve did not finish it for him. They both knew what would have happened.

"These guys must want you pretty bad," Shane continued. "And you have no idea at all why you were being held captive all these years?"

"Not a clue," Steve replied, glancing over his shoulder into the darkness behind him. He could see nothing in the intense blackness, but the close walls and the dark was making him feel claustrophobic. "Like I said, they kept asking questions about my house, but I have no idea why I was a key component in whatever it is that they want. This Vaughn guy seems to be the ringleader, but I think someone else is not only calling the shots, but bankrolling it."

"That makes sense," Shane agreed. "Someone managed to spring Vaughn from prison. That would have to be someone with a lot of power or a lot of money, or both. Vaughn was once a good agent, until power and greed became more important to him than honor and rules. I'd sure like to know what he's up to."

"That makes two of us. Whatever it is, it cost me fifteen years of my life, fifteen years that should have been spent with my wife and my daughter."

They went around a sharp corner, indicating a larger subterranean room was on the other side of the cinderblock wall, forcing it into a 45 degree turn. A little farther and another 45 degree turn put them back to their original direction.

"We're under the lawn now," Shane said.

The tunnel was almost a straight line now, with barely discernable curves that had been minor adjustments in the builder's progress toward the stable.

As they neared the end of the narrow passageway, a staircase materialized out of the intense darkness ahead of them, not the rickety ladder that Steve had expected, but a solid stairway made of concrete. And at the top of the stairway was the trapdoor that Shane had said opened up in the feed room.

Shane led the way up the steps as high as he could get beneath the ceiling, then crouched down beneath the trapdoor. Steve followed, and both men crouched there, listening intently for indications that anyone might be inside the feed room directly over their heads. There was no sound, no voices, no footsteps walking across the wooden flooring, so Shane turned off the flashlight and they were plunged into total darkness.

Very carefully, Shane pushed the trapdoor up a few inches, just high enough that he could see through the crack. A thin sliver of muted light pushed back the total darkness below, and a sprinkling of fine dust and few bits of straw filtered down into the tunnel, and Shane blinked and squinted to avoid getting any of the debris in his eyes. Slightly below his position, Steve turned his face away for the same reason.

When the dust had dissipated, Shane rose up to observe the feed room. He could easily make out the outlines of the large bins containing the various types of feed and vitamins for the horses, and a few unopened bags of feed stacked in the corner that had not yet been emptied into the bins. Shifting to look on the other side, he saw the glittering of several salt blocks and mineral blocks waiting to be distributed to the stalls and paddocks.

He waited a few more moments, listening for the sounds of footsteps or voices, and when there was no indication of intruders, he pushed the trapdoor all the way open and completed the climb up the steps and into the feed room.

Steve followed close behind, and they carefully lowered the trapdoor back into place. Stepping quietly, they made their way across the room to the open doorway, and paused there, one on each side.

The stable was quiet, save the occasional stamping of a hoof or the swishing of a long tail in the stalls containing horses. Across the door from him, Shane heard the deep sigh of relief from Steve Johnson, and echoed the same sentiment.

The feed room was very dark, but Shane did not dare to turn the flashlight back on for fear that it might be noticed through the windows of the stalls, so he tucked it into the hip pocket of his jeans and moved quietly the feed room door.

Just as he was starting through it, he heard the rear stable door open, and both men stumbled back to their original positions, waiting to see who the new intruder might be.

They did not have long to wait. Creeping quietly along the wide aisle, the individual went straight to the feed room and stepped through the door. He was barely inside when Steve grabbed both hands full of his shirt and yanked him fully into the room, slamming him against the wall.

"It's me, sir!" the man responded immediately to the rough treatment. "It's me!" His hands were up in the air in surrender, and his voice was breathless with panic.

"Dobson?" Shane asked.

"Yes, sir!"

"It's okay, Steve, let him go," Shane said. "He's my chauffeur. He's going to drive us out of here."

Steve released the chauffeur. "Sorry 'bout that."

Dobson barely glanced at Steve's dark shape, dismissing him in favor of his employer. "Hargrove reported to me that the tires on all the vehicles in the garage have been punctured."  
"Damn it," Shane swore. "Steve, they're preparing for your arrival, making certain we can't drive out of here."

"My personal vehicle is parked behind the arena, out of sight from the main house and gate, and far enough away, I think, that they shouldn't hear the engine start," Dobson said.

Shane nodded, pleased. "Excellent," he said quietly.

Taking the lead, he left the feed room and started down the wide aisle toward the rear door where the chauffeur had entered moments before.

Following close behind, Steve saw that it was a pair of wide double doors that latched in the middle. Even though he was a city boy, he understood that the doors could be swung open wide to admit a truck filled with sacks of feed or even hay for the loft. Along both sides of the aisle, horses hung their heads over their stall doors, watching with pricked ears as the three humans passed. One friendly mare stretched her nose toward them, and Steve placed his hand on it, feeling the warm breath and velvety muzzle. The animal's gesture was somehow comforting.

When Shane reached the double doors, he pushed one side open just wide enough to pass through, and they filed out one at a time. Dobson closed it and latched it securely behind them.

Shane gestured with his hand. "This way. Keep low," he added for Dobson's benefit. The man was a loyal employee, but he was unaccustomed to being a part of suspense and intrigue.

Bent at the waist, Shane led the way past an empty flatbed truck, presumably used for hauling hay and feed, and past the outdoor riding arena. A large light pole was positioned beside the arena to provide light for anyone who wished to ride after hours, but it was turned off when not in use, allowing the three men to hurry by without being noticed.

They breathed a bit easier when they reached a long hedgerow that ran alongside a paved driveway, but they remained on the grassy side of it, where they were less conspicuous.


	23. Chapter 23

The moon was up, brightening the carefully manicured land that comprised the Donovan estate, and here and there, security lights pushed back the darkness where needed, providing viewing ease for the monitors positioned in crucial areas.

In all his years as an I.S.A. agent, Shane had never seen his estate's security so thoroughly breeched as it was now, evidence that he was dealing with I.S.A. technology that was being used against him; the stolen technology reported to him by Thiessen, put to nefarious uses. They should not have been able to get onto the grounds without immediate detection, and yet they had somehow managed to do just that. They should not have been able to get into the garage, but all three vehicles had been disabled. All of it in an attempt to recover Steve Johnson.

What information did they think Johnson possessed that was worth this much time and trouble?

Steve claimed he had no idea, and given his condition and appearance after 15 years of imprisonment, Shane was inclined to believe him. Somehow, along with the knowledge of the theft of I.S.A. equipment, a dangerous mystery had landed right in his lap.

Crouched low and moving in single file, Shane, Steve, and Dobson followed the hedgerow, using it and the shadow it cast for cover as they proceeded toward the spot where the chauffeur had parked his personal vehicle. They moved quietly, with the clearly nervous Dobson in the lead, while Shane and Steve kept their pistols at the ready in the event that they encountered trouble.

When they reached the end of the long wall of shrubbery designed to shield the working areas of the property from the house and yard, Dobson's medium sized gray car came into view, parked in an inconspicuous spot behind a tool shed, and the three men paused there to observe it.

Shane's phone must have vibrated in his pocket, for he quickly withdrew it and pressed it to his ear. "What do you see, Hargrove?" he asked, quietly. When the employee answered, Shane's body tensed. "All right. Keep watching."

"What?" Steve asked, sensing that the call meant trouble.

Returning the phone to his pocket, Shane whispered. "We have company!"

Silently, the three men shrank back into the shadow of the hedgerow and watched as a man in dark clothes and carrying a flashlight came into view from the other side of the shed. He crept cautiously along the length of the car, shining the light into the vehicle, examining the interior. Then satisfied that it was empty, he withdrew his mobile phone.

"There's a vehicle parked behind a shed on the far side of the arena," he said into the phone after pressing speed-dial. He paused briefly to listen to the speaker on the other end of the line, then said irritably, "I know that! I punctured the tires on all three vehicles. Even if they do go to the garage, the cars are not drivable. I'm going to disable this one too, then I'll head back that way."

He disconnected the call, and while the three men watched, he thrust a knife into each tire. Dobson gave a low groan of dismay as his tires were flattened.

"His name is Harding," Steve whispered to Shane. "He's the sharpshooter they kept on hand to keep me in line. He's also the one I shot with his own dart gun, and I have a feeling he's going to be looking for revenge."

Shane jerked his head, indicating that Steve and Dobson should follow him, and when they were out of hearing range, he pulled out his phone again. "Hargrove, do you see anyone around the flatbed?" When Hargrove replied, Shane said, "Let me know if anything changes." To Steve and Dobson, he said, "The only vehicle on the property that remains undamaged at this point is the flatbed."

"I have the key," Dobson said. Sensing Steve's surprise that he just happened to have the key to the truck, he added, "I have a key to every vehicle on the property. Maintaining them is part of my jobs."

Hurriedly retracing their steps, they returned to the large flatbed truck that was used for heavy hauling. Shane opened the passenger side door, and the overhead light briefly blinked on before he pressed the button to darken it, hoping it had not betrayed their presence.

Dobson scrambled across the seat and settled himself behind the wheel, then Steve climbed into the middle position. Shane entered last, and eased the door closed.

When they were settled and while Steve and Shane peered out the windows for signs that Vaughn's men were nearby, Dobson fumbled in the dark with the keys on his key ring, of which there were many. One by one, he attempted to insert the keys in the ignition, until the vehicle finally came to life.

"Any change Harding heard that?" Steve asked, turning his head to look out the rear window.

"Dobson makes sure all the engines are well-service, but I think he'd have to be deaf not to hear it," Shane replied.

With the headlights off, Dobson eased the truck behind the barn and followed a narrow access road toward the rear entrance of the property.

As they cleared the stable area, Shane turned in the seat to look behind them. "Even if they didn't hear the engine start, they are almost certain to see the taillights every time you apply the brakes," he mused.

Thinking ahead, Steve felt a sudden pang of alarm. "Do these goons know where you hangar your plane?"

"You can bet on it. The good news is, we aren't taking my plane. I arranged for a loaner at a different airport. The only question is, will these guys follow us, or will they go directly to the airport, hoping to head us off?" He withdrew the mobile phone from his pocket and lifted it to his ear. "Hargrove, can you see them? What are they doing?"

"They've seen you, sir," he replied. "I can see two cars on the monitors. One is going down the access road toward the stable at a high rate of speed. The other sped off the other direction, presumably heading toward the airport."

Shane sighed, heavily. "Damn it. I didn't count on them having two vehicles. Only one was initially visible on the monitors. That changes the landscape a bit." He snapped the phone closed. To Dobson, he said, "A vehicle is coming up behind us. We're going to have to lose him."

"I understand, sir," the chauffeur replied. His voice was nervous, but there was no vacillation in his resolve, and Steve suspected a plan had already been discussed.

"What do you have in mind?" Steve asked.

"We have a few contingency plans," Shane replied.

Dobson continued to drive along the narrow private road while as one Steve and Shane turned to look out the rear window again.

At first, they saw nothing in the darkness, then both men saw a dark shape moving toward them at a high rate of speed. It paused slightly as it came around the back of the stable area. Very briefly they saw a red flash as the driver of the other car tapped the brakes.

"There they are," Shane said.

The other car hung back, the headlights off, apparently hoping to avoid tipping them off that they were being followed.

"He doesn't want us to know he's back there," Steve said.

"Maintain your speed," Shane instructed his nervous driver. "I'm not sure it matters, but I'd rather they didn't know we've seen them."

"Yes, sir," Dobson said, his attention focused entirely on driving the flatbed truck and remaining on the road without the aid of headlights. "It's just ahead, Mr. Donovan."

"Good. I think they're hanging far enough back that we won't be seen after we get around the curve." He braced himself. "Hang on, Steve. We're about to make an evasive maneuver."

The truck followed the road around a curve and the car behind them disappeared from view due to the trees that lined the road. Immediately, the chauffeur accelerated as he completed the curve and then made a sharp right turn through a narrow gap in the foliage and onto a narrow driveway. An open garage awaited them, and Dobson expertly guided the truck into it. The garage door was on its way back down before they were fully inside, and it barely missed the rear bumper as it settled into place.

The engine was immediately silenced.

"Like a rabbit in a bolt hole," Shane said with satisfaction. "Well done, Dobson."

"Thank you, sir."

In the darkness of the garage, Steve looked at Shane's silhouette with new found admiration for the agent who was doing so much to help him.

They fell silent, listening, and for a few moments, the only sound was that of their own breathing. Then they heard the motor of the other car going around the curve and past the garage. As it faded into the night, Shane said, "It worked."

"For now," Steve said. "When they notice that we're no longer in front of them, they'll probably double back to see where we turned off. And this will be a likely starting point to begin their search." His eye swept the dark interior, meaningfully. "What is this place, anyway?"

"This is actually the garage to Dobson's cottage," Shane explained. "This is part of my property. The cottage is currently being renovated, so he and his wife have been living in another cottage nearby until the renovations are complete."

"Well, lucky for me it was here. But now, I would suggest we get out of here and back on the road, before those goons come looking for us."

"Yes, well, I wish we had a different vehicle, since they know we left in the truck," Shane replied. "They'll be watching for it."

"Actually, sir," Dobson said, fishing around in his pocket for his personal car keys. "My wife's car is parked behind the house. We saw no need to move both cars to the other cottage, since we knew we wouldn't be staying there long. We keep it under a port behind the garage." He withdrew his hand with the key ring, which he held up for his employer to see.

"Let's go, then, before they realize we're no longer in front of them," Shane said, opening the truck door. It was a large truck and there wasn't much room on either side of the vehicle, but he managed to open it wide enough to slip out.

Steve followed and the chauffeur got out on the other side, then Dobson led the way to a side door of the garage, unlocked it, and stepped outside.

A security light burned above the side door, and Steve felt very conspicuous as he and Shane followed the chauffeur along the side of the house to a small red car that was parked under a shelter port near a private patio. Stacks of sheetrock were arranged beside the patio door, evidence of the renovations.

The chauffeur unlocked the doors and they got in. But when they returned to the road, they turned left, toward the stable area they had just left minutes before.

"We're going back?" Steve asked, experiencing a moment of panic.

"No. We're simply taking a different route," Shane told him. "I wanted to give the illusion that we were going toward the airport where I keep my plane. Now, we'll work our way toward Weston, where the substitute plane is hangared."

On the road again, the chauffeur turned on the headlights, illuminating the road ahead of them. Safely in a different vehicle, they were just another car on the road, one Vaughn's men would not be looking for. It was primarily a long dark stretch of two lane highway, and they made most of the drive in silence, glancing frequently behind them, but no one appeared to be following.

When they reached the private airport at Weston, the chauffeur drove the car around a small hangar and parked it near a gleaming white Cessna Citation X that was being prepped for departure.

Steve and Shane got out of the car and walked toward the plane.

While Shane glanced cautiously around the artificially lit tarmac, Steve looked skeptically at the plane, feeling very uneasy by its size. "This thing doesn't look big enough to reach New York."

"It'll get us there," Shane assured him. "I wish we could have taken my own plane, though. It's larger and has more headroom, but I assure you, this one is capable of reaching New York. We'll refuel there, then continue on to Salem."

At the thought of landing at JFK airport, a concern suddenly popped into Steve's mind. "I don't have a passport."

"Actually, you do," Shane said with a sly smile. "While you were showering and resting, I contacted my supervisor and asked him to have some identification prepared for you."

Steve's eyebrows lifted. "Prepared. You mean forged." It wasn't a question, but a statement, and Shane gave a nod in response.

"Technically, yes. Your records and photograph were still in our computers, so he drew up an extended profile from that, and your new passport and I.S.A. Identification are both waiting for you on the plane. Everything you need to get back into the U.S."

"Sounds like you've thought of everything," Steve commented, impressed.

"Well, I always try to be prepared. You are now a current I.S.A. agent who has been working with me on a project here in England."

"I'm not even going to ask how you swung that," Steve said.

They reached the airplane, and Shane took the lead, trotting up the fold-down steps and stooped as he passed through the hatch. After a quick glance around the well-lit tarmac, observing the other private airplanes that were scattered about the small airport, Steve went up the steps and ducked his head as he entered the plane.

Shane had been correct when he had suggested that the plane did not have much headroom, but it was just as luxurious has he had expected it to be. There were eight plush seats, each one with a window, and there was plenty of leg room, as the seats were spaced well apart.

Shane had stopped at the cockpit door to speak to the pilot and co-pilot, presumably about the flight plan, so Steve moved past the first row of seats and sank wearily into a soft seat in the second row, finding it far more plush and comfortable than the coach seats on the commercial flights on which he had usually traveled. While he waited, he kept a wary eye on the window and the tarmac beyond. Dobson was waiting in the car, apparently making certain the plane was on its way before leaving.

After a few more minutes, Shane joined him, taking the seat on the other side of the aisle. "It looks to be a smooth flight," he said, passing a small manila envelope across the aisle. "These are yours."

Steve opened the envelope and slid the contents onto his lap. He picked up the passport first and opened it, surprised that it looked totally authentic. The picture, of course, was a younger version of himself that had been slightly computer aged. It contained more than two dozen stamps, indicating that he had traveled abroad a number of times. In reaction to the very official looking stamps, he looked over at Shane with raised eyebrows.

"He's the best in the business," Shane responded to the unspoken query. "We couldn't just give you one visit; as an experienced I.S.A. agent, you would be expected to have traveled more than once. No one will know that they were forged, trust me."

The other item was the identification card, about the size and shape of a driver's license. The photograph was the same one that had been taken years ago, when he had joined the I.S.A. in Salem, but again, it had been slightly computer-aged to be more in line with his current appearance.

"So, I'm back in the I.S.A.," he said, jokingly.

"Temporarily, anyway, unless you decide you want to join up officially, of course."

"Right now, I just want to get home."

Shane reached across the narrow aisle and gripped his shoulder in a friendly way. "We're getting there, my friend, we're getting there."

Steve looked at his brother in law for a long moment, experiencing an unaccustomed surge of emotion. The Englishman had done far more for him that he had ever expected or even hoped for. "Shane, I never would have been able to get back to the States without your help. This means a lot to me, man. You could have just blown me off."

"No, I couldn't," Shane contradicted. "I didn't know you all that well before, but you helped us get Andrew back after he had been kidnapped, and that's something I could never repay."

"My help was rather clumsy," Steve admitted. "Anytime the cops saw me, they tended to think I was involved."

"Well, we got him back, thanks to you, and that was the important thing. As for tonight, the theft of those security items combined with you showing up alive and well after all these years raises some serious questions about the security and integrity of the I.S.A. These agents may or may not be part of the main body, but it's a sure bet that some of them were once trusted agents. I'm going to see this through, starting with delivering you safety to your family in Salem. Once there, we'll bring Roman in on it, and we'll figure out where to go from there. There are a lot of pieces to this puzzle that need to be sorted out and put into place."

As the pilot closed the hatch, they turned their attention to the windows and saw Dobson turning the car around to drive it back to the estate.

"Will he be okay?" Steve asked, concerned.

"He'll be fine. They saw us leave in the flatbed, not the car, and they don't know that he was the one driving us. They will be more interested in the local airports. He will simply go to the cottage he's currently staying in, and will probably retire for the night."

"I wouldn't want anything to happen to him on my account," Steve added, watching the car drive away into the darkness.

The pilot secured the hatch, then returned to his seat, and a moment later the plane began to taxi toward the runway.

Automatically, Steve reached for the seatbelt and fastened it securely. Across the aisle, Shane did the same.

Those few moments, as the plane taxied toward the runway, were probably the most panicked that Steve had felt since his escape. In a few minutes, unless something went wrong, they would be in the air, safe from Vaughn and his cohorts. He was so close now to making a clean break that it seemed impossible that something would not happen to block this final escape. In these next few minutes, his life depended upon the aircraft receiving clearance to take off.

His heart thudded wildly as he stared out the window at the well-lit tarmac, searching for signs of vehicles that might drive onto the runway to stop them, but so far the only sign of a vehicle was Dobson's fading taillight as he drove away into the night. Each breath he took was a ragged gasp, and his hand went to the pocket which concealed the handgun Shane had given him, assuring himself of its presence.

Clenching the seat's arm rest with white knuckles, he turned his head on the backrest to glance across the aisle at Shane, who was looking out the window on his side of the plane, apparently experiencing the same last minute concerns. Carefully and intently, he scrutinized everything he could see, shifting position if needed to observe anything that caught his attention.

Shane jumped suddenly as if startled, a movement that sent a ripple of alarm through Steve, but before he could respond, the British agent reached into his pocket and withdrew his cell phone, which had been set to vibrate and which had startled him with its abruptness.

Putting it to his ear, he said, "Donovan." He listened intently for several moments, a worried frown on his brow. "Good work, Fox. Keep on it and don't let her out of your sight." He flipped the phone closed and turned to Steve. "You were right. That was Fox, the agent who is guarding Kayla. He reported just now that there is someone else watching her. We have to assume it's one of Vaughn's people."

Steve felt like he had been punched in the gut. All concerns for his own safety vanished when confronted with the possibility that Kayla was in danger. "So help me, if they so much as touch her -"

"Fox is one of the best in the business, Steve," Shane interrupted. "He won't let anything happen to her. It helps that he spotted the other guy without being seen himself. That gives us the advantage."

"What the hell is this all about?" Steve raged, frustrated. "How can Vaughn afford to keep all these people on payroll?"

"Yes, how indeed?" Shane agreed. "Someone else is funding this. Someone with very deep pockets."

Before either could say anything else, the pilot's voice came over the speaker, "Secure for takeoff."

Then they were accelerating down the runway at increasing speeds until they felt the floating sensation when the wheels left the ground.

After 15 long years, Steve Johnson was finally on his way home.

* * *

Hours later, a slight bit of air turbulence jostled the plane, jolting Steve awake. He felt warm and relatively comfortable in spite of the fact that his forehead was resting against the hard Plexiglas of the plane's window, having slipped forward off the small pillow he had tucked into the gap between the seat back and the bulkhead.

Lifting his head, he rubbed the heel of his hand against his right eye in an effort to drive away the drowsiness, then adjusted his eye patch and sat up straighter in his seat. It was still dark, and they were still over the water.

"I hope I didn't wake you," Shane apologized from across the aisle. He had turned on the overhead reading light and opened his laptop computer on the tray table in front of him. He had been typing information into it, saving the data on a USB drive that was sticking out from the side of it.

Steve cleared his throat and coughed to wake up his voice, and quickly replied, "No, no, I'm fine. You didn't wake me. A little bit of turbulence did that. How long was I out?"

"Not sure. I just woke up myself a few minutes ago and couldn't get back to sleep, so I decided to catch up on some work. We should be in New York in a couple of hours."

Shane returned to his laptop, and Steve turned his attention to the window.

Through the blackness of night, there were enough stars and moonlight that he could see the shape of the airplane's wing and the flashing red light on the end of it. After a few more hours, he would be standing on American soil again, a privilege he had feared he would never see again.

As his thoughts drifted back to Kayla and his family, it suddenly occurred to him that he had not seen Kimberly back at the Donovan mansion, nor had Shane made any mention of her. It was conceivable that she was waiting for him back in Salem, if he still maintained two households, but he sensed that was not the case.

Turning his head, he observed the man who had devoted so much time and effort into helping him get back to the United States. He was bent slightly forward over the keyboard, a pair of reading glasses perched halfway down his nose. Steve's eye lowered to the man's left hand and noticed that there was no ring on his finger.

As if sensing that he was being watched, Shane turned his head to look at Steve, and their eyes met.

"I don't want to pry, but can I ask a personal question?" Steve asked.

Shane shrugged. "Sure. Go ahead."

"Where is Kimberly? I didn't see her back at the mansion, and you haven't mentioned her."

Pain tightened the corners of Shane's mouth, and he slowly removed his glasses and placed them on the tray table beside the computer.

"Hey, I'm sorry, man," Steve said quickly. "I shouldn't have asked."

"No, that's all right," Shane said. "You've been out of touch for a long time, so of course you don't know. Kim and I are divorced."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I always thought you two were as good together as Kayla and I."

"Well," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "We had two children together and there were doubts about the paternity of both of them. In all fairness to her, she thought I had been killed in an explosion and I suppose she was in a vulnerable state to resist the other guy's advances, but . . . . " He sighed, heavily, remembering the pain and disappointment. "We just weren't able to put it back together again."

"That's rough, man," Steve said. "Sorry to hear that. So is there a new Mrs. Donovan, or are you gun shy?"

"Gun shy, I suppose," came the prompt response. "I have my work to keep me busy." He stared at the computer screen for several moments, but Steve knew he was not really seeing it. He sighed wistfully and added with regret, "I barely know my children, and that's the hardest part of all this. They live in the States with their mother. When they were younger, they spent summer vacation and every other Christmas with me, but now that they're older . . . " He cleared his throat and put his glasses back on, turning his attention back to the computer screen. "They have their friends, of course. That doesn't leave much time for the old man," he said in obvious conclusion. Placing his fingers on the keyboard, he focused on the screen, trying to regroup his thoughts.

Steve gazed at him a moment longer, understanding that this was an unhealed wound for Shane. Although he appeared to be concentrating on his laptop, Steve knew he was still thinking about his family, perhaps regretting some decisions, wishing it had been different.

Turning back to the window, he looked out at the dark, watery horizon, thinking about the unexpected similarities between him and the British agent. Both had been separated from their families for a long time, and from the way it sounded, their children had grown up without them. There were different reasons, but the end result was the same: Neither of them really knew their children.

He could only wonder what other surprises awaited him in Salem.


	24. Chapter 24

Nighttime had followed the aircraft as it traveled westward across the Atlantic, and the sky along America's eastern seaboard was still very dark as the private plane began its initial descent toward JFK International Airport.

Experiencing the strong emotional pull of a United States citizen returning to his homeland after a long, forced absence, Steve sat quietly in the plush seat, his forehead pressed against the cool Plexiglas as his good eye peered intently into the darkness that enveloped the plane like a glove, seeking an early glimpse of the lights of American cities that he knew were positioned along the coast. The plane was still too far east of the shoreline, and he was unable to see anything except the red light blinking on the wingtip and his own anxious reflection in the window.

He had no wallet and no luggage, merely the official two-pocket I.S.A. identification holder that Thiessen had sent along with the plane. Both the fake I.S.A. card and the passport were ticked securely into it, and had been slipped into his hip pocket, a strange sensation for a man who had not carried a wallet in more than a decade. Soon, both items would be put to the test when they went through Customs, where they must be accepted as authentic before he could proceed. Shane had reassured him that the documentation was nearly infallible, but cautioned him to be calm and casual and to do nothing to attract unwanted attention to them. The customs officials at JFK were familiar with I.S.A. Agents, so the Englishman did not anticipate any difficulties.

Steve considered himself calm and rational, but as he thought about the end of the flight and the uncertainty of what awaited them once they were on the ground, he could not help but feel a bit apprehensive. Leaving the plane to go into the terminal meant exposing himself to other people, any of whom might have ties to the men who had kidnapped him. That made him uneasy.

There were both pros and cons to their predawn arrival. There would be fewer travelers in those early hours, and fewer people moving about inside the terminal would make it easier to spot anyone who might show an unusual interested in him. But it would also make it easier for those same people to spot him, and it might embolden them to the point where they might attempt to seize him. He would need to remain alert and vigilant.

"Do you think they have operatives over here that have been sent to JFK to wait for us to arrive?" he asked, turning toward Shane. "It's a sure bet they know by now that you used a different plane to get me out of England, and they probably know we're flying into New York. They might have someone down there right now, waiting for us."

Shane slipped his laptop into its computer case and zipped it shut. "I've considered that possibility myself, but although it is certainly possible, I don't believe it is likely. Even if they do have someone over here waiting, I'd be willing to bet they would be waiting for us in Salem instead of New York. They know that will be our ultimate destination."

"What's to stop them from putting a few people at each airport, just to make sure?"

"Well, they know I'm with you, and they know I have certain I.S.A. devices to help us, so they would need a bare minimum of three people to have any chance at all of capturing us. I don't think they've employed people to wait around in the U.S. all this time. I don't even think this operation is quite as big as it seems on the surface."

Steve was surprised. "Not that big? They paid at least three people to watch over me for the past fifteen years, and that doesn't even include Vaughn. And they sent someone to kidnap Kayla."

"I know, but think about it. If they'd had more employees involved in this, they would have put out the word for their guy to apprehended Kayla the minute they knew you were gone, and she would have been taken within hours. Instead, they must have had to use connections to find someone willing to do the deed, and by the time they got him out there, it was too late. We were already protecting her."

"I overheard Vaughn before I managed to escape. They were already making plans to kidnap her and use her to force me to cooperate with them."

"The fact that she had not been kidnapped prior to your escape reinforces my belief that this is a small operation, and that they had to take the time to find and hire someone to do it."

"Even that must be costing them. What is it they think I know that could be worth all this trouble?"

"I'd sure like to know the answer to that. I'm starting to think that something went wrong with their original plan; something didn't work out the way they had anticipated. Fifteen years is an extraordinary length of time to hold someone key to a plan, and it must have cost them dearly. But whatever the information is that they think you know, it must be worth it to them in some way to keep it going in spite of any set-backs they may have encountered."

Steve fell silent for a short time, thinking about that. Shane had obviously been giving it a great deal of thought, and his analogy made sense. "What happens when we get to Salem?"

"First, we'll be flying to a private destination where transportation will be waiting for us. After we land, Roman has arranged a safe house, where you will be staying. Kayla and Stephanie will be brought there as well."

Steve's ears popped, reminding him that the plane was descending, and he could not shake the feeling of unease at being vulnerable to another kidnapping. "I don't suppose there is any way we can take these pistols inside the terminal with us."

Shane shook his head, negatively. "I'm afraid not. I'm licensed to carry, but even I.S.A. agents would cause a bit of a scene if we showed up inside the terminal with a weapon. We'll have to leave them on the plane while we're inside. The good thing is, there are always people in an airport. If any of Vaughn's people are here, I don't think they will try anything in the open. In other words, if you need the loo, do it before we leave the plane. I don't think it would be advisable to be caught in the public restrooms."

The plane continued to reduce altitude, and when Steve turned back to the window, they were low enough that he could see the Statue of Liberty during their approach. They were nearly there.

"So what's the procedure going to be when we leave the plane?" Steve asked.

"We'll have to de-board on the tarmac, since we're a little small for jetway service, and from there we'll proceed to Customs. JFK is a very busy airport, but given the early hour and the fact that we're not a large commercial flight, I don't expect to find many people there waiting to be processed, so hopefully this will be fairly quick. Present both your passport and your I.D. card. I'll go first and do most of the talking, but if they ask, we've been working on an international case together."

The plane continued its descent, settling lower as it approached the airport, and when they received clearance, they lined up with the landing strip and finally touched down.

As the plane taxied off the runway, Steve settled back in his seat and looked out the window at the artificially well-lit airport. Even at the early hour, there were other planes taxiing to and from the runways, while others were parked at the jet ways. Men on baggage carts zipped to and fro, and here and there a pilot walked dutifully around a plane with powerful flashlights to give it a visual check for soundness. Most of the jetways, however, were empty, awaiting flights that would arrive later.

Inside the glass walls of the terminals, backlit by the strong fluorescent lights, he could see several passengers in the waiting areas reading books in the rows of chairs, playing handheld games, or dozing with their heads in their hands. A few stood at the windows, their hands cupped to the glass, looking out at the passing planes or watching the baggage handlers.

Shane looked across the aisle at Steve, and wished for a pair of sunglasses for the one-eyed man. With the eye patch, he always stood out in a crowd. "Even though I think we'll be safe, I sure wish we'd had time to come up with some kind of disguise for you, just in case."

"Doesn't matter," Steve told him. "They know I'm with you, and as soon as they see you, they'll know that the other guy is me, no matter what I look like."

He nodded. "Yes, you're right."

The plane finally came to a halt, and Shane stood up. "Ready?"

Nervous butterflies fluttered anxiously in Steve's stomach, but he stood up and followed Shane down the aisle to the hatch.

The co-pilot had already stepped out of the cockpit and opened the hatch for his passengers, then stood back so that Shane could exit first. As he stepped into the doorway, Shane paused to view the tarmac, looking for anything that might appear abnormal.

Steve waited behind him until the I.S.a. agent was satisfied and finally went down the steps, then he followed him down the fold-down stairs into the dusky morning. When he reached the bottom, Steve Johnson stepped off the final step and set foot on American soil for the first time in over 15 years.

Well, he thought, technically it was asphalt, and although known for his cockiness, he felt the emotion of the moment, and a lump swelled in his throat. He suddenly had a complete understanding of why some people, upon re-entering their country after a long absence, abandoned all dignity and fell to their knees to kiss the ground in their joy of being home again. He felt that same sense of inner elation, but he had never been one to succumb to outward displays of sentiment, and besides, it would have called unwanted attention to himself.

So he shrugged off the elation and straightened his back as he fell in step with Shane, and they entered the terminal together.

Steve was aware that major airports were never closed. Always, no matter what the hour, there would be flights arriving and departing at intervals and as a result, there were always people milling about, hurrying for flights, going through the check-in process, or waiting in the departure areas. There were far fewer people than seen during the peak hours from mid-morning to early evening, but enough to make him feel uneasy and vulnerable as they proceeded along the concourse toward the Customs area.

As he had been since his escape from the basement prison, he was very alert to his surroundings, and his eye darted attentively toward every movement, looking for anyone who might be observing him with unusual interest. The few people they passed barely glanced at him.

As they walked, they heard the intermittent voice over the intercom announcing arriving or departing flights and the terminal gates.

Steve glanced up at the clock on the wall, and saw that the time was 4:16.

Noticing that he had checked the time, Shane said, "The Customs desk is always open, and I'm hoping that, at this hour, it won't be extremely crowded. I've gone through Customs during peak hours, and it can easily take an hour or more to get through."

When they reached the Customs area, they saw to their great relief that the line was in fact quite short. They stopped behind the last person in line, a sleepy looking young man with his jeans so low on his hips that the crotch was almost to his knees and at least four inches of bright red underwear showed above the waistband. He was bopping and swaying to the song that was playing in his earbuds.

Steve's eyebrows shot up and he turned toward Shane with an expression of such amusement that it was clear he was struggling to keep from laughing.

"Fashion has taken a nosedive since you left," Shane explained.

"He walks like a penguin!" Steve said as the young man moved up a few steps in the line, pushing his oversized duffle bag along with his foot. Still swaying and jerking to the music that only he could hear, he was apparently unaware that he was being discussed with such amusement. "I keep expecting his britches to fall!"

Unable to hold it any longer, Steve laughed aloud and was surprised at how good it felt. His laughter was contagious, and Shane joined in, happy to share the moment of hilarity. A few other people in the next line, understanding what had inspired the laughter, were either grinning broadly or laughing outright.

The young man, oblivious to the fact that he was the source of the hilarity in the room, waddled up to the Customs desk and placed his passport in the agent's hand, but did not remove the earbuds until instructed to do so. With a sigh of annoyance that his song had been interrupted, he pulled the buds from his ears and answered the expected questions, explaining that he had been vacationing in Italy with friends, and was now returning home. The agent stamped the passport and returned it to him. After replacing the earbuds, he grabbed his slipping pants with one hand to re-hitch them an inch or two, then bopped away from the counter, inspiring a fresh round of laughter.

"That _can't_ be comfortable," Steve said, still looking after the young man with amused incredulity.

"We see all kinds," the agent said with an eye roll as Shane stepped up to the counter.

"I imagine you do," Shane agreed, placing his British passport and his I.S.A identification card on the desk.

The agent picked them up to examine them, then his eyes went to Shane's face, his expression one of respect. "You're I.S.A.?"

"Yes. My partner and I are on an important international case." He indicated Steve, who waited behind.

The Customs agent gestured for Steve to step forward, and he took the documents that were offered. He opened Steve's American passport and glanced at it then at the man who stood before him. Steve concentrated on maintaining a calm appearance, and he looked much more composed than he actually felt.

Then, without any questions at all, apparently assuming they were questions that could not be answered for international security reasons, he stamped both passports and returned them to their owners. "Have a safe trip, gentlemen."

"Thank you," Shane replied, pleasantly.

He and Steve moved out of the line and walked away from the Custom's area, returning their documents to their pockets.

Steve glanced over his shoulder, comforted that no one had decided to single him out for additional security screenings and very relieved that the passport had been accepted as genuine. Not only was he on U.S. soil, it now appeared they had a clear road ahead.

"Well, that was simple enough," he said.

Shane was more confident in the forger's abilities, and displayed no apparent surprise that the documents had worked as intended. "Well, the Customs agents are familiar with our organization. They don't tend to question us because they know we often can't answer their questions." He looked at the clock on the wall, then adjusted his watch to the local time. "We've made good time, but now we have some time to kill while the pilots report to Customs and refuel the plane. At this hour, I'm sure the only thing open is McDonalds. Is that agreeable with you?"

Steve was grinning, feeling more buoyant than he had felt since the birth of his daughter. "I love the way you talk, man," then said, mocking Shane's accent, "'Is that agreeable with you'?" He laughed, happily. "No, offense, man. As for McDonalds, do you realize how long it's been since I've been there?"

Shane shrugged. "About 15 years, I'd wager."

"Fifteen years since I've been to an American restaurant. And McDonalds is about as all-American as you can get. You don't realize how much something means to you until you lose it."

Shane observed him quietly for several moments, understanding that Steve was almost giddy in his excitement of being back in the United States. "Freedom must seem pretty amazing to you right now."

"You have no idea!"

They walked up to the counter of the well-known restaurant and paused to observe the menu above the cashier. As he viewed the selection, Steve's eye drifted to the price beside each item. Being an airport restaurant, the prices were, of course, a bit inflated, but it did not matter either way. Steve had nothing with which to pay.

"I hate to bring this up," he said, hesitantly. "I don't have any money."

"Don't worry about it," Shane told him. "I'll take care of it. Since I travel to the States on a regular basis, I always keep some American cash on hand back home, so I grabbed it before we left. There's more than enough to cover us both until I can get to a currency exchange center."

"Well, I'll pay you back as soon as I can," Steve promised.

"No need," Shane said. "This is part of an I.S.A. investigation. My expense account will take care of it."

Both men ordered the Big Breakfast Platter and a large coffee, then carried their trays to the seating area. Given the hour, they pretty much had their choice of tables, and selected one that was not highly noticeable in its position, where they could see anyone who walked past, but were not out in front where they could be easily seen by others.

Steve took a sip of his coffee, a good American brew, and sighed deeply in obvious approval. "Ah, man, that's good!"

"Well, I have to admit, they do know how to brew a good cup of coffee," Shane agreed as he buttered his pancakes, then poured maple syrup over them.

Steve speared a large chunk of the pancakes with his plastic fork and shoveled it into his mouth. A look of sheer bliss filled is expression. "Tell me I haven't died and gone to heaven."

"You haven't died and gone to heaven," Shane obliged patiently. "You're eating synthetic food in a fast food restaurant at JFK airport."

"If you'd had to exist on that slop I was being fed, you'd consider this a feast!" Steve declared.

Given the weight loss, Shane understood that Steve had probably not been well-fed. In fact, withholding food was sometimes an effective method of extracting desired information.

"No, I'm not in Heaven yet," Steve continued, unaware of the nature of Shane's thoughts. "I'll get to heaven when I see Kayla and Stephanie again."

"That's going to go both ways, Steve," Shane said. "Kayla's going to be elated that you're still alive."

Steve fell silent for several moments, staring at his food, his mood suddenly subdued. Finally, he said, "Everything good that ever happened in my life, happened because of her. She saw things in me that I never even knew existed. I just regret that it took so long for me to realize it. I wasted so much time pushing her away."

Shane observed him sympathetically, appreciating the sentiment the man felt for his wife. "Well, she's a good woman, and a very determined one. And you're going to see her again in just a few hours."

Steve snapped out of his sudden melancholy at the reminder. "That's right, I am."

Picking up the plastic fork again, he devoured his breakfast with hearty gusto, while Shane ate a bit more conservatively.

After finishing their breakfasts, they refilled their coffee cups and lingered at their table awhile longer, killing time until they would return to the plane. It was still hours too early for any of the gift shops or other stores to open, and even though Shane still doubted that any of Vaughn's people were there, they decided it was better to stay out of the open as much as possible.

Finally, a little after six o'clock, Shane pulled his cell phone from his pocket and read the text message from the pilot. "The plane's fueled and we're ready to go," he said to Steve. He sent an acknowledgement, then returned it to his pocket.

They stood up and after dumping the contents of their trays in the large receptacle and placing their trays on top, they paused to look cautiously up and down the concourse, before stepping into the flow of travelers.

There were more people moving to and from the gates now, but as they went around a corner, a man standing beside a nearby kiosk caught their immediate attention. With a cell phone clamped against his ear, he was looking all around him, sometimes leaning to one side to see around other travelers who stepped into his line of vision. Clearly, he was looking for someone.

As one, Steve and Shane shrank behind an advertisement cubical, out of the flow of foot traffic.

"Does he look familiar?" Shane asked.

Steve shook his head. "No. Never saw him before."

Remaining as inconspicuous as possible, they observed the man who looked anxiously up and down the concourse.

"We don't know for certain that he's one of Vaughns people," Shane said, quietly, "but he is definitely looking for someone."

"He looks nervous," Steve observed. "I wish we could hear what he's saying.

"So do I," Shane agreed, thoughtfully. "The I.S.A. has listening devices capable of picking up conversations from distances greater than this, but unfortunately I don't happen to have one with me. It never crossed my mind that we might need it."

The man glanced at his watch impatiently, and it was obvious that he was growing more and more agitated. He began to pace back and forth, making ambiguous gestures in apparent frustration.

A shout from farther down the concourse caught their attention, and they turned toward it. So did the man on the phone, who spoke a few hasty words into the mouthpiece, then ended the call.

"Sorry I'm late!" the second man said loudly as he neared his friend. "Caught in traffic."

They heard no more, but the two men hurried away, presumably to catch a flight. They were either friends or co-worker traveling together to a mutual destination.

Steve and Shane exchanged glances, feeling rather foolish.

"Well, aren't we a pair?" Shane asked.

"Well, better safe than sorry, as my mama always said," Steve replied. The truth was, he was badly shaken by the possibility that the incident could have had a much different outcome.

"Come on, let's get back to the plane," Shane suggested. "I don't know about you, but I'm getting a little jumpy."

"Suits me," Steve replied. "I'm ready to put this place behind me."

After another precautionary glance around the terminal, they walked back toward the same gate they had entered.

The intercom voice announcing flights and departures came more frequently now with the increased human traffic, and Steve's nerves were stretched so thin that the frequency of the announcements annoyed him.

He breathed a sigh of relief when they finally pushed through the door and stepped into the open air. It was not fresh air, strongly scented with jet fuel and city smog, but Steve had no complaints.

It was daylight, and as they walked toward the plane, they saw the pilot walking around it, conducting his routine safety check on the gleaming white aircraft.

Steve and Shane did not linger on the tarmac, but immediately went up the steps and into the plane. Steve moved down the aisle to the same seat he had before, and sank wearily into it. This was the last leg of his journey home. In a few hours, he would be back home in Salem, and in the comforting arms of Kayla.


	25. Chapter 25

After concluding what he considered a pointless evening of following Roman Brady around Salem, Owens had grabbed a few hours of sleep at his motel, then drove to a local donut shop to pick up his breakfast.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he left the donut shop and made the drive to the Pub to resume his primary assignment of waiting for an opportunity to snatch Kayla Johnson. On the seat beside him was a box of donuts, and a steaming cup of coffee was in the cup-holder as he intended to settle in for another long day of watching Kayla Johnson, and waiting for her to put herself in a situation where it would be easy to get her into his car.

But as he slowed the car in preparation of making the turn into the parking lot, his attention was instantly diverted to the silver sedan that was parked by itself at the rear of the lot. The car's windows were slightly open at the top to allow the early summer breeze to cool and ventilate the interior, and the occasional movement as the driver sipped a cup of coffee indicated that he was watching the establishment.

As Owens stared at the car, there was no doubt in his mind that this was the same one he had seen at the abandoned house yesterday and the same one that had been parked outside the pub the evening before. This suggested that the driver was watching Kayla Johnson, or he was watching for the black SUV that he, himself, was driving. Or perhaps even both.

Spooked, he pressed the accelerator and drove around the block, keeping an eye on the rear view mirror to see if the car was following.

The driver's face turned toward him, indication that he had been seen but the silver car did not follow, confirmation that it was almost certain Kayla Johnson in which he was interested. Easing back on the accelerator, he pulled into a convenience store lot to think about the situation for a few minutes.

Men and women walked briskly in and out of the convenience store, picking up snacks and breakfast items on their way to work, but even though his eyes saw them, he barely noticed anything about them. His mind was focused entirely on the silver car and the ramifications of its presence.

The situation was starting to unravel; he could feel it. When Vaughn had hired him to kidnap Kayla Johnson, he had not questioned the motive behind it or the morality of it. Such things were unimportant to people like him. He cared only about the size of the payment he would receive at the end of the job. It would be in cash, of course, in untraceable U.S. currency. He knew his employer only by one name, Vaughn, and he had no interest in the Englishman's plans for the woman once she was delivered. Clearly, however, there were now some complications.

Or competition. Perhaps Vaughn was unhappy with the length of time it was taking him to complete the job and had hired someone to replace him.

He rejected that idea as unlikely. He had only been in Salem a couple of days after flying in from Los Angeles, where he had been told the woman lived. It was hardly his fault that she had chosen this time to visit Salem. More likely, someone else had an interest in her. But why?

He needed to report this to Vaughn, but when he reached for his cell phone, it rang just before he could grasp it.

"Owens," he said.

"This is Vaughn," said his caller. "What happened last night when you followed Roman Brady?"

"Nothing much. He went to the Pub for a while, and then picked up his wife and they drove to a restaurant called Shenanigan's. They stayed inside for a long time, several hours, and then they came back out and drove home. I stayed outside the house for hours, but they never came back out."

Vaughn was quiet for several tense moments, realizing that something was wrong. Unaware of the details, Owens had seen nothing suspicious in Roman's behavior, but red flags had gone up in Vaughn's mind. Donovan almost certainly would have contacted Brady to make arrangements, and he would not have trusted those arrangements with phone calls that might be tapped. He might, instead, have used a public phone at the restaurant. "Are you certain he didn't see you?"

"I haven't made a name for myself in this type of business by being careless, Mr. Vaughn," Owens said, his voice edged with offense. "I'm good at what I do, but if I'm not good enough for you, you can find someone else."

It was too late in the game to hire someone else, and Vaughn knew that. "I know you're good, Owens, but so is Roman Brady. Damn it, I know he's making preparations for Johnson; I know it. That dinner at Shenanigans was probably a ruse. He probably met someone there, made arrangements for Johnson." He was talking more to himself than to Owens, so the mercenary made no comment, waiting for him to continue. "All right, I don't think there is anything else to be gained by following Brady. I want you back on Kayla Johnson –"

"There's some . . . um, complications in that area."

"What kind of complications?" Vaughn asked, warily.

"Someone else is following her, someone I haven't been able to identify. I saw him yesterday afternoon, but thought it might be a fluke, but when I drove over to the pub this morning, he's there again, watching the place with enough intensity that it's obvious he was put there by someone."

Vaughn fell silent again as he processed the unexpected revelation that Shane Donovan had apparently placed a guard on Kayla Johnson. It had not occurred to him that Shane, occupied as he was with the task of making arrangements to fly Johnson out of England, would consider the fact that the wife was vulnerable.

Damn! he thought resentfully. We should have taken her years ago! That would have forced him to talk!

But even as the thought flickered in his mind, he knew that kidnapping her would not have been as easy as it had been with Johnson, who had been declared dead following an elaborate hoax. No one had been looking for him, allowing them plenty of time to pursue their plans, but it would have been impossible to take the wife while maintaining a low profile. Setting up a similar scenario as her husband would have taken time, time his employer had not wanted to lose.

They had lost a great deal of valuable time waiting for Johnson to recover from the effects of the drugs that had been used to facilitate his fake death, an unforeseen occurrence they could never had predicted. From the very beginning, it seemed that the plan had been wrought with set-backs and impediments.

Owens cleared his throat, misinterpreting the long silence on the other end of the line. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to complete the job, Mr. Vaughn," he said. "If there is anything else I can do—"

Vaughn snapped out of his reverie. "Very well, then. We'll have to go to Plan B."

"Plan B?"

"There is someone else who should be a satisfactory stand-in for Mrs. Johnson, someone he loves almost as much as his wife."

"If you're speaking of the daughter, I don't think she'll be any easier than the wife. There is always someone with her."

"I'm not speaking about the daughter, although she might have been an excellent choice in the beginning."

"Who, then?"

"A woman named Adrienne Kiriakis. She's Johnson's little sister. Had I known they would move this fast to protect the wife, I would have put you on the sister from the beginning, since it's far less likely that they will think of putting a guard on her. I want you to fly to Dallas, Texas," Vaughn continued. "I will fax the address and other pertinent information to you momentarily, and then I want you in Dallas today, as soon as you can get there."

Owens breathed a sigh of relief. He was still on the job. "I'll be looking for it."

"In the meantime, I am flying to Salem with a couple of my men. I want you to bring Mrs. Kiriakis there. Bring her to the place you were instructed to hold the wife. You will be compensated for the added fuel expense. We'll be there as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir. I'm on it," Owens replied.

"And Owens? Be very careful," Vaughn cautioned. "The husband is a member of a very wealthy and very powerful family. I've had dealings with his uncle, Victor Kiriakis, before. He's a hard man with the means to make you disappear, if he gets the notion, so make certain the husband isn't around when you take her."

Owens felt a chill at the warning, but he did not allow it to show in his voice when he replied, "Like I said, I'm good at what I do. We'll be in the air before anyone even knows she's missing."

"There will be a bonus if you can get her to Salem tonight. Time is now of the essence."

Owens was practically salivating at the promise of additional cash. "I'll see you this evening, then."

He disconnected the call and pulled out onto the street, headed for his motel room, where he had left his portable fax machine. After retrieving the information Vaughn was sending, he would pack up his belongings, check out of the motel, and fly his plane down to Dallas. With any luck, by that night, he would be a very wealthy man.

* * *

"This must be the place," Bo said, slowing the car.

"Looks like it," Hope agreed, her finger pressed to a position on Roman's map that was spread open on her lap. "We've traveled about the right distance, I think. It's hard to tell with no landmarks except that abandoned silo we passed ten minutes ago."

They were deep in the Midwestern countryside, well away from the paved roads of Salem. The narrow dirt road they had been following for the last fifteen minutes was heavily rutted and wound its way between the "back 40" style pasturelands that apparently saw little use by the owners. On both sides of the road, the wire fences sagged beneath the weight of the wild vines of native honeysuckle and ivy, and densely growing saplings and shrubs often blocked their view of the pastures. Just ahead, a narrow gap opened up in the wild vines and shrubbery, indicating a possible entrance.

When Bo reached it, he saw that it was so overgrown that there was barely room to admit a vehicle. He didn't bother with a blinker; there was no one behind him to see it. He turned the wheel and carefully lined up with the opening, then, easing the car through the narrow opening, he crossed over the grated cattle guard. Waving strands of honeysuckle brushed the sides and the hood of the car, and they detected the sweet smell of the blossoms that drifted in through the open windows. With a smile, Hope leaned away from the window to avoid being slapped in the face by the trailing vines.

When the car emerged on the other side, they followed the ancient twin gravel wheel-paths over a low saddleback and down into the shallow basin beyond. The paths were overgrown with tall grass that brushed the belly of the vehicle and slapped at the fenders and doors. There were no buildings nearby, but stretching out before them was a long ribbon of asphalt, flanked by the tall grasses that rustled softly in the mild breeze; the old landing strip that had been owned by the crop duster that Roman had told them about.

Bo drove the length of the runway to check the condition of it, then, satisfied that it was safe for a plane to land, he stopped the car at the edge of it and turned off the ignition to wait.

Hope leaned forward to look out the windshield toward the empty sky, then settled back and observed the remote, abandoned airstrip. "I had no idea there was a runway out here."

"Neither did I. I can't imagine how Roman found it. Or why Shane feels he needs it. He must be involved in something really dangerous to take all these precautions."

Well, he usually is, isn't he?" Hope replied. "Looks like this runway hasn't been used in many years," she observed. "Look at the grass growing in the cracks in the asphalt along the edge."

"Yeah," Bo agreed. "And it is certainly secluded. Anyone driving by would never know this place was here." He pointed toward the crumbling cinderblock foundation that had once been a small private hangar and a few rusted pieces of corrugated sheet metal, visible through the tall grass and weeds. "That must be the remains of the hangar."

They fell silent for several minutes, listening to the cheerful sounds of the birds and continuous rasping sounds of cicadas in the warm early summer air. The area had a distinctly desolate and abandoned appearance.

"This takes the word 'covert' to a whole new level," Hope said, breaking the silence. "I wonder why he wanted us to pick him up here instead of the airport."

Bo shook his head. "Well, he said it was very important that no one know he was coming, so I guess he didn't want to risk being seen by someone he wants to avoid." He paused, tugging thoughtfully at the short dark beard on his chin. "I wonder what he'll do when he finds out Kimmy's in town."

"That could be a bit awkward," Hope agreed. "Especially if this assignment he's on is as dangerous as it sounds. I'm sure he won't want to involve her or their daughter in it. I never did understand why they broke up. Yeah, they had some problems, but every couple does. Shane is still single, and now Kim's marriage has ended. That seems to suggest that they never quite got over the other."

Bo looked over at her with a knowing smile. "Now, don't start playing matchmaker! Whatever happens between them, they'll have to work it out for themselves."

"That's fine," Hope said, her voice slightly animated. "But sometimes it never hurts to give it a little nudge!"

"Hope -" Bo began

"There it is," Hope interrupted, nodding toward the speck in the sky that could only be an airplane approaching.

They fell silent, watching the speck grow larger as it neared. When it reached the landing strip, the plane circled the entire area once, a wide sweep that was clearly intended to observe the area for unwanted attention. Bo flashed his headlights twice, the agreed upon signal that they were friends. Then, reassured that Bo's car was the only vehicle in the immediate area, the plane lined up with the runway and gracefully touched down.

Bo and Hope watched as the brand new Cessna Citation taxied toward them, then got out of the car to wait for their old friend and former brother in law to exit the plane.

"He does travel in style," Bo said, admiring the sleek white plane. "Of course if I had his money, I could travel in style too."

Hope smiled and elbowed him playfully in the ribs. "We're doing just fine. After all, we still have each other."

"That we do, Fancy Face," he agreed, fondly.

As the plane drew slowly to a complete halt, Steve moved across the aisle to watch through the tinted window as Bo and Hope emerged from the car and walked to the front of it, where they stood side by side, watching and waiting. Steve felt a sense of peace that they were still together. Like he and Kayla, they had been through a great deal of turmoil in their younger days, and had clearly survived it all.

Unaware of his presence inside the plane, they were focused on the hatch, waiting for it to open, anticipating that Shane would reveal the secrets of why they had been summoned to meet him at this remote place. He could only wonder how they would react to seeing him alive after so many years of believing he had been murdered.

Emotion surged through him as he continued to gaze at his two friends. They looked almost the same as he remembered, but with a few age-related changes. There was some gray in Bo's otherwise dark hair, which glistened in the early morning sunshine, and the hair was a bit shorter than it had been the last time he had seen him, but the short cropped beard was still in place, as were the denim pants and comfortable work shirts that were so familiar. Hope seemed too thin for her height and her hair was styled shorter than it had been before, but she was still the Hope he remembered.

His chest hitched with suppressed sentiment, and he reached up to brush the back of his hand across his eye before the tears that were burning there could spill over the rim.

"I can't believe I'm finally back, after all these years," he said in a choked voice. Turning to Shane, unashamed of the emotion that he knew was still on his face and the tears that had filled his eye, he added, "I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me, Shane."

Shane observed him for a moment with sympathetic eyes. Steve Johnson was a proud man who rarely allowed others to see him so vulnerable, and he understood that he had at last earned his trust, something Steve rarely bestowed on anyone.

He gave a slight nod. "I'm glad I could help, Steve. And I promise, we're going to do everything we can to bring these people down who did this to you." He tossed a soft hooded jacket into Steve's lap. "The plane belongs to my supervisor, and he thought perhaps you might want to wear this to help conceal your face. I didn't think you would need it, but I suppose it never hurts to use a bit of extra caution. I think it would be a good idea to put it on until I have a chance to explain who you are. Remember, everyone here thinks you're dead." He stood up. "Well, I suppose I'd better go out first. With the hoodie, you can come out behind me, but hang back a bit while I talk to Bo and Hope. I'll wave to you after I've explained to them how it is that you're still alive."

Steve nodded his agreement in agreement. "Okay."

As Bo and Hope watched, the plane's door folded down, providing the steps, and Shane Donovan stood in the doorway, looking around with great caution. Looking back into the plane, he spoke to someone still inside, then trotted down the stairs and walked briskly across the asphalt toward the Salem couple.

A second figure appeared in the doorway, and even though it was a warm June day, the man wore a hooded jacket, pulled so low on his brow that it concealed all of his features except his lower face. This was the man they were instructed to protect, and clearly, the intent was to keep his identity a secret, but Bo and Hope were instantly intrigued, wondering at the reason. The man followed Shane down the steps, but lingered near the aircraft, apparently waiting either to be summoned or for Shane to return to the plane.

"I wonder who he is," Hope said, unable to explain the strange chill that went through her body. There was something about the man's posture that seemed curiously familiar.

Bo's brows knitted in a frown, also detecting something strangely familiar in his mannerisms. "I don't know, but there something about him . . . . "

Before he could say more, Shane approached, his hand outstretched. Bo reached out to shake it, then Hope embraced him in a sisterly hug. "It's good to see you again," she said.

"Thanks for coming," Shane said, his eyes darting warily around, taking in everything in the surrounding terrain, still ascertaining the safety. "Roman picked a good spot." His obvious caution did not go unnoticed by Bo and Hope.

"It's an old crop dusting runway," Hope explained.

"We saw you do a fly-over," Bo said.

"Yeah. Sorry about the cloak and dagger stuff, but I wanted to check out the surrounding area before we landed to make sure you weren't followed."

"Roman told us we had to be careful and keep an eye on our rear-view mirrors," Hope told him. "No one followed, but now we're curious to know why we had to use such caution."

As his wife was speaking, Bo found his attention diverted to the other man who waited beside the plane, and as soon as Hope stopped speaking and before Shane could answer, he asked, "Is this all about him?"

Shane glanced over his shoulder at the man, then replied, "Yes, he's the reason for all the precautions. His life is in imminent danger. That's why I asked Roman to come up with an out-of-the-way place, instead of coming into a public airport. The guys who are after him have at least one operative here in Salem, so we couldn't risk being seen by the wrong people while we move him to a safe location."

"So who is he?" Bo asked. "And who is after him?"

"At this point, we're not entirely sure who's after him, but we believe there may be some rogue I.S.A. agents involved. It's a very long story, much too long to explain here and still much to be learned, but right now we need to get him to the safe house." He glanced at the man again, which inspired a similar reaction from Bo and Hope. "I wanted to give you a heads-up on his identity before you actually see him, because it's going to be a shock, believe me!"

Bo and Hope exchanged puzzled glances.

"So it's someone we know?" Bo asked.

"Yeah, it's definitely someone you know." Shane drew a deep breath, dragging his fingers through his thick hair, struggled to find an easy way to break the news without just blurting it out. "I have to tell you, I thought my eyes were deceiving me when he showed up in front of my car last night!"

"So he's someone you didn't expect to see," Bo prompted when Shane paused, obviously struggling with his explanation.

"That's putting it mildly. I considered how to explain all this as we were flying over here, and I never did come up with an easy way to do it. We all thought he was dead! We attended his funeral."

"Dead?" Hope asked, surprised. She and Bo looked at each other again. "Who?" she prompted, intrigued. "Just say it."

Without waiting for Shane to get his words together, Bo abruptly started walking toward the man who waited beside the plane.

"Bo, wait!" Shane said sharply, turning to follow him, reaching for him in an effort to restrain him, but Bo stepped up the pace to avoid him, paying no need to the warning.

When he reached the hooded man, Bo stood in front of him for several moments, struck by the intense familiarity he was feeling. The man was tense, recognizing that the introduction was not going according to the plan. His head was still tipped forward, concealing most of his face with the loose hood, but Bo could see the lower face; the straw colored beard, a full rather pouty mouth, a wisp or two of longish blond hair. Without speaking, Bo reached out and pushed back the hood.

Steve Johnson raised his head, looking directly into Bo's face.


	26. Chapter 26

Shock rippled through Bo like an electrical charge, rendering him momentarily speechless as he took an astonished step backward. His heel caught a grassy seam in the cracked concrete of the old runway, but he barely noticed his ungraceful stumble as he recovered and started at the man before him.

"Steve!" he exclaimed when he found his voice.

Hope had followed, and she, too, stopped to stare, her jaw dropping in astonishment. "No, that's not possible!" she exclaimed.

As he stood face to face with a friend he thought he had lost years ago, Bo felt the weight of the emotions that were building inside him, swelling inside him until his eyes burned with the tears that crowded behind them. "Steve," he said, his voice a mere whisper. "I can't believe this! How?"

"It's a long story, Bo," Steve said, quietly. There was no cockiness in his voice, only an unspeakable weariness.

Bo continued to stare for several more moments, as if frozen in disbelief, then he flung his arms around Steve and drew him into a bone-crushing embrace, his hands gripping the hooded jacket tightly as if afraid he would disintegrate into thin air if he let go.

Steve responded in kind, his arms around his old friend, fighting the tears that were building inside him. The distance he had traveled, the hardships he had faced, were all coming to an end now. He was almost home.

Hope wiped tears from her cheeks and smiled as the two old friends clutched at each other, both of them overwhelmed. Standing to one side, Shane attentively scanned the sky and the surrounding prairie, politely allowing the friends their emotional reunion.

Abruptly, Bo broke the embrace and shoved Steve away forcefully as his elation at seeing his old friend alive and apparently well gave way to sudden, impulsive rage that the friend and brother in law had deceived them all. Glaring bitterly, his hands clenched and unclenched, clearly struggling to control the urge to lash out physically at the man who had caused Kayla so much grief.

Steve spread his hands in a gesture of surrender, indicating that he was not going to respond in a negative way. In fact, he had expected that Bo would feel some anger until he understood the story.

"Where the _hell_ have you been all this time?" Bo demanded in a snarl. "And why did you let us think you were dead? Do you have any idea what you've done to Kayla? Why did you put her through that?"

Recognizing her husband's combative words and posture and worried that he might do or say something he might later regret, Hope quickly intervened, placing a gently restraining hand on his arm. "Bo," she said sternly. "Bo, settle down. I'm sure there's an explanation."

"Yeah? Well there had better be, and it better be a good one!" he replied through clenched teeth, still glaring at the one-eyed man who stood before them like an apparition.

Steve shook his head slowly. "It wasn't by choice, Bo. I never would have left Kayla and Stephanie of my own free will. I was abducted, taken without my knowledge or consent. Kidnapped. I didn't even know about my supposed 'death' and funeral until Shane told me last night. All this time, I figured I was just considered missing, and kept hoping that someone was looking for me, that maybe someday they would find me and get me out of that hell-hole I was in."

Deciding they had lingered too long, Shane stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Bo's shoulder. "I think additional explanations should wait. We need to get out of the open. They're bound to know that we're in the country now, and when we don't show up at the airport, they'll be expanding their search."

Without a word, Steve replaced the hood, concealing his face once again, while Bo and Hope exchanged concerned and puzzled glances.

"What is this all about?" Bo asked. "And who the hell is 'they'?"

"Later," Shane told him. "Let's get in the car and get back on the road. Now, Bo," he added when Bo made no move to return to the vehicle.

A movement inside the airplane attracted Bo's attention, and he watched as the pilot pulled the steps back into place and secured them. Although his curiosity was piqued, he knew Shane well enough to know that his concerns always had merit, and he gestured for everyone to move toward the vehicle.

"Tinted windows," Shane observed, approvingly. "Good thinking."

Bo and Hope took the front seat, Steve and Shane the back, and as he started the engine, a glance in the rear-view mirror revealed that both Steve and Shane were looking out the windows, searching the sky and the surrounding terrain. Searching for danger, he realized.

"Have you checked the car for tracking devises?" Shane asked.

Bo looked shocked. Even though Roman had stressed the need for caution and secrecy the night before, it was difficult to equate the protecting requirements with Steve Johnson in any capacity except some kind of wrong-doing on his part. "What the hell is he involved in?" he demanded.

"Bo!" Hope admonished. To Shane, she said, "This car is completely secure. We kept it locked inside the garage, and no one knows that Roman came to us to have you picked up."

Shane was not totally satisfied. "It could still be bugged, but I don't have any scanning devices with me. I guess we'll just have to keep a sharp eye out for anything suspicious."

Shifting the car into "drive", Bo executed a U-turn and slowly eased the vehicle through the wild honeysuckle again, over the cattle guard, and pulled onto the narrow road, turning toward Salem. Behind them, the airplane lifted gracefully into the air.

Bo watched as it rose higher and higher into the sunny sky, leaving the well concealed runway and the surrounding wilderness with no trace that it had been there. Then he looked in the rear-view mirror at the Englishman who was still attentively scanning the area.

"If anyone cares to start explaining, now might be a good time to start," Bo suggested. He had calmed down some, but there was still a note of bitterness in his voice that his old friend might have involved himself in something so dangerous, and still unconvinced that he had not left willingly.

Steve narrated an abbreviated version of his kidnapping and incarceration, beginning with everything he remembered before his "death" and ending with the plane landing only minutes before.

When he finished, there was dead silence in the car. Hope had shifted position so she could look at him over the seat-back with ever increasing concern. Bo's brow was drawn together in a thoughtful frown.

"And this was the I.S.A.?" he asked.

"Not the main organization, but we know of at least one former I.S.A. agent involved, and we know there was at least one active member who provided the security devices, but we don't know who he is just yet," Shane corrected. "Remember Agent Vaughn?"

There were several moments of silence as Bo and Hope considered the name from the past, familiar to both, but a name they had not heard in years. Bo shrugged, but Hope finally pulled the name and face to the surface. "The guy who kidnapped Marlena as incentive for Roman to remember where those bonds were hidden in Stockholm?"

Shane nodded. "The very same. He's the one who orchestrated all of this."

"I thought he was in prison."

"He was. But he's free now. I looked into the matter before leaving England. His sentence was abruptly terminated, and no one was willing or able to tell us why. My guess is, someone with either a lot of money or a lot of political might bought his way out. Probably the same person who's bankrolling all of this."

"And he's the one who set up this fake death and funeral?" Bo asked. "I thought the Alamains were the ones who killed Steve. Or tried to kill him," she corrected.

"We're not certain exactly when Vaughn came in to this operation or if he was a part of the fake death, but given his current high status, it seems likely that he probably was," Shane said. "Obviously, there is a lot that far surpasses anything we are aware of at the moment."

Unable to wait any longer, Steve said, "Is Kayla all right?"

Hope reached between the bucket seats to give Steve's knee an affectionate pat, still delighted and a bit overwhelmed that he had come back into their lives. "She's fine," she assured him. "And she's going to be so thrilled when she finds out you're still alive. You may not know this, but she moved to California after you . . . after you left, but it just so happens that she's back for a visit."

"Yes, I know. Shane told me."

Surprised, Bo glanced at Shane in the rear view mirror. "How could you know that?"

"Steve was concerned that these people who kidnapped and imprisoned him will be so desperate to get him back that they might try to kidnap Kayla to use as a pawn to lure him out in the open or even convince him to surrender to them. I was inclined to agree, so I contacted one of our L.A. operatives and asked him to check on her. He reported back that she was no longer in L.A., and that she had gone to Salem for an unscheduled visit."

"Your agent managed to get all that information about her?" Bo asked, unsettled by the reach and pull of the I.S.A. that they could so easily and quickly obtain information on anyone they needed to find. "I didn't think employers could give out personal information, or even reveal their employees' whereabouts."

"Our agents are good at what they do, and we have a lot of technology at our disposal," he replied without revealing specifics. "I notified a Salem agent about her, and he's been keeping an eye on her. Good thing, too. Turns out, Vaughn had indeed put someone on her."

"You're kidding," Bo said, feeling positively alarmed now and more than a little angry that his sister had been placed in danger. "What the hell are these guys after?"

"I wish I knew, Bo," Steve said, solemnly. "I wish the hell I knew. Whatever it is, they must want it pretty damn bad to hold me prisoner all those years."

Gradually, as they left the pastureland behind, they began to see scattered houses and eventually neighborhoods and shopping centers. Salem's urban sprawl had progressed considerably during the time that Steve was away, but without sacrificing the charm of a smaller, Midwestern town.

Traffic increased, and as cars and trucks drew alongside the vehicle in the general flow of traffic, Steve was grateful for the tinted windows that prevented others from seeing inside the car. He felt vulnerable and exposed, but so far none of the other drivers they passed paid attention to them, nor did he recognize any of the men and women he saw.

When Steve started seeing things that were familiar to him from his past, he felt the warm nostalgia embrace him. There were some changes. The old movie theater was gone, replaced by a new building, and there were other differences, but Salem was recognizable to him, and that was a comforting bit of continuity.

They did not approach the river or other areas that were most familiar to him, areas where he had lived and worked and played. Instead, Bo took a turn that carried them outside town again and into a wooded area upland from the city.

"So where is this place?" he asked.

"North of town," Bo replied. "It's a small two story cottage that we've used to protect witnesses and snitches. We've already installed a security perimeter using various forms of technology, plus a few carefully screened officers who answer only to Roman or myself, so it's about as safe as it can possibly be."

"Good," Shane said. "We'll need to bring in a few I.S.A. agents to work on this case, since it's an international case and it appears to involve at least one former agent. I'd like to conduct a meeting at the safe house, once Steve is settled."

"Roman has already indicated the same. I'm sure he'll want to talk to you to coordinate our combined forces. Don't expect the Salem PD to be left out of the loop, though," Bo warned. "When the explosion happened, Steve was a cop, and that makes him one of us. We're involved, and it's going to stay that way."

"Wouldn't dream of keeping you out of the loop at this point," Shane told him. "I'm sure we'll need all the help we can get."

The drive took them past farms and more pastureland before Bo turned off onto a narrow dirt road that looked more like a wagon track than a road. Trees grew so close together that branches raked the sides of the car in several places, and moss grew on the narrow mound between the tire ruts.

"This is like something out of a nightmare," Shane said, drawing away from the window as another branch raked along the outside of the glass.

"This whole damn thing has been a nightmare for me," Steve told him.

After another ten minutes, Bo slowed the car and stopped in front of a gate constructed of five strands of barbed wire.

A police officer emerged from a clump of brush on the driver's side. "Detective Brady," he said in greeting.

"Is everything ready?" Bo asked.

"Yes, sir. The alarm on the perimeter fence is turned on, and also in the house. The code is 1-0-7-5. Chief Brady stocked the fridge with groceries, so everything is ready. The house and grounds are secure."

"Good." As Bo rolled the window back up, the officer opened the gate to allow them through.

Bo drove the car through the gate. "The fence is armed with sensors. Anyone trying to get over it or under it or if someone tries to cut it, it will trip an alarm that will warn the house and the guards of an intruder. Same with the house. All the exterior doors and windows are wired. The house has central air, so you won't need to open the windows. Leave them closed and locked at all times."

As Bo was speaking, a clearing opened up before them, and in its center was a small two story cottage.

"Looks quaint," Hope said, approvingly. "I imagine it will be a lot better than where you were kept before."

"Anything would be better than where I was kept before," Steve told her. "But either way, I still feel like a prisoner."

"Try not to think of it that way," Bo told him. "In this case, the locks and alarms are not to keep you in; it's to keep them out."

"So I can step outside if I get the urge?" Steve asked.

"Not a good idea, Steve," Hope said.

He sighed. "I know. Just thought I'd ask."

"It isn't the same, Steve," Bo told him. "We have multiple layers of security set up to keep them from getting to you, but one careless move from you can completely nullify everything."

Steve dragged his fingers through his hair then adjusted his eyepatch, both gestures of the frustration he felt. "Sorry, guys," he apologized. "I don't mean to be difficult, but you have no idea what it's like to spend 15 years of your life locked up, unable to even go out to a restaurant or take a walk around the block, or even stand outside with the sun on your face."

"It's only until we catch those people," Shane reminded him.

"I guess I can live with it that long." He opened the car door. "Let's go check this place out."

They got out of the car and walked up the front porch steps. Bo punched in the code, then unlocked the door with a key, and led the way inside.

Steve stopped in the middle of the living room to look around. Larger than the room in which he had spent the last 15 years, it was carpeted instead of the cold tile. A sofa, two wing chairs separated by a lamp table, a coffee table, and a television furnished the room.

"That thing got cable?" Steve asked.

"Yes," Bo replied.

"I didn't even have a radio in my prison. They sometimes brought books for me to read, but that was the only entertainment I had."

There was bitterness in his voice, and Hope placed her hand gently on his arm in an attempt to sooth him.

Steve drew a deep, calming breath. "Bedroom upstairs?"

"Two of them," Bo said. "The master and a smaller one. Kitchen and dining room are over there," he added, nodding toward the wide doorway which lead into the nook.

Steve looked and could see the table, large enough to seat six comfortably, eight if crowded. "That's a big table for such a small house."

"We use it as a conference table whenever we need to have a strategy meeting with the person we're protecting," Bo replied.

Shane was interested, and moved closer to examine it. "Yes," he said, approvingly. "It will do nicely. I need to round up a few of my agents so that we can get an interview going. When we all put our heads together, we might be able to decipher some of why this was done."

"Roman will want to be here," Bo reminded him.

"All right." Shane glanced at his watch. "It's after 8:30 now. We'll see if we can get everyone together later this morning, say an hour or so, and -"

"No," Steve said, a small word that silenced them all. "Before we go any farther, I want to see my wife and my daughter."

"You'll see them," Shane promised. "Today, in fact, but first let's get this meeting over with, and then -"

"Not negotiable, Shane," Steve told him. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, but I intend to see my family before anything else."

Several moments passed as everyone stood there looking at each other. Steve folded his arms defiantly and waited, determined he was going to win this one.

It was Hope who finally nodded her agreement. "Either one of you guys would feel the same way in his place. He hasn't seen his family in 15 years. I can fully appreciate how they would be foremost in his thoughts." She looked at her husband. "Can't you?"

Bo looked at her, then nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry, Steve."

"So am I," Shane conceded. "I tend to get so wrapped up in the job that I sometimes go to the extreme. Of course, your thoughts are with your wife and child." He glanced at his watch again. "Bo, if you'll drop me off at the car rental, I'll get with the I.S.A. agents and arrange the meeting for around noon. I'll bring some pizza. Is Tortelli's still in business?"

"Still the best in town," Hope said.

"All right," Bo said. "After I drop you off, I'll go get Kayla and Stephanie." He drew a deep breath and blew it back out. "I have no idea how I'm going to explain this to Kayla." To his wife, he added, "Are you coming, or staying?"

"I'll stay here with Steven," she said. "We'll explore the house."

"Okay. Be back soon."


	27. Chapter 27

At Shane's request, Bo dropped the I.S.A. agent off at a local car rental agency, then proceeded directly to the family-owned pub that had replaced the old Fish Market that had been the Brady's livelihood for as long as he could remember. Although some of the Market's inventory had been commercially supplied ocean fish, many of the customers had preferred local freshwater species, and he had fond memories of going out in a boat with Shawn Brady, the man who had raised him as his own, to fish for catfish, walleye, bass, northern pike, and bluegill.

Memories of those outings never failed to bring a smile to his face. He had been young and often rebellious, and even though he had been unaware that Shawn was not his biological father, there was sometimes a distance between them that neither could fully grasp. And yet, as he looked back on those pleasant days, he regarded them as some of the best in his life. They had often struggled financially, for the Market relied on availability of product and the success of the small restaurant that Caroline had opened at the front of the store. Her clam chowder was a local favorite, and one that continued to be enjoyed by customers at the Pub.

As the sibling closest to him in age, Kayla had sometimes joined them on the boat. At the time, she had been a bit of a tomboy, and could bait a hook or manage the nets as well as anyone in the family, and that had contributed to the closeness that had developed between her and Bo. Rarely had either been at a loss for words with the other.

Until now.

As he proceeded toward the Pub, Bo considered what he would say to Kayla when he arrived, but he only managed to stress himself out over his inability to come up with the right words. There was simply no way to prepare for something like that. No matter how he worded it, it was going to come as a shock.

When he pulled into the Pub's parking lot, his eyes scanned the rows of parked cars and came to rest on the silver sedan that Shane had told him would be there. It was parked inconspicuously at the rear of the parking lot where the agent had a clear view up the alley to the back door, and still see the customers entering and departing through the front door.

Bo felt a strong admiration for the agent who sat inside the car, attentively observing the entire area for suspicious behavior. Surveillance was a long and boring assignment, but the dedicated ones performed their duty with patience and skill.

After parking his vehicle near the front door, Bo walked toward the agent's car, observing that the agent noticed him immediately and rolled down the window, indicating that he had been expected. Shane, he deduced, must have notified him of the new developments.

"You Bo Brady?" the agent asked.

Bo opened his identification wallet and showed it to him. "You must be Agent Fox."

The agent offered his own identification. "Donovan called a few minutes ago, and said you were moving the target to another location. Once she's safely in your vehicle, I'm to surrender the assignment to you."

Bo felt a slightly resentful twinge at hearing his sister referred to as a "target", but he knew it was considered the usual lingo for a surveillance assignment. "I'm going inside to get her now, and yes, we'll take over from there. I want to thank you for getting on the case so quickly. From what Donovan told me, it looks like your presence may have prevented her from being kidnapped."

"Glad to help," Fox replied, amiably. "He probably told you, too, that there was a black SUV following her the last couple of days, but the night shift agent reported that it abandoned the assignment around dusk."

Bo nodded. "Yes. It sounds like the same vehicle that my brother, Chief Brady, reported was following him yesterday evening."

"I glimpsed the same vehicle as it drove past the Pub this morning, but it took off in a hurry and hasn't been back. I suspect I was spotted."

There was a note of apology in his voice that Bo waved away. "Don't worry about it. We'll catch them when the time is right." He returned his I.D. wallet to his pocket. "Okay, I'll go get my sister and her daughter, and we'll be leaving in a few minutes."

"After you bring them out, I'll follow you a few miles to make sure no one is tailing you, then I'll head out."

"Sounds good. I appreciate it."

Leaving the agent seated in his car to continue his surveillance, Bo walked back across the parking lot toward the Pub's front door, noticing as he did that Kayla's rental car was parked near the alley, where she sometimes entered or left the building through the private entrance. If she followed the itinerary she had kept the past few days, she would have once again be venturing out to continue touring the city, unaware of the danger she placed herself in.

As he reached for the door, he paused to cast an attentive glance around the parking lot and the nearby buildings and roads, searching for the black SUV or perhaps even a different vehicle that might have been brought in to replace it. His dark eyes lingered briefly on a blue Taurus that was clearly occupied, but after a moment or two, the driver got out, fumbling with a laptop computer and it's electrical and internet cords.

Bo relaxed. More and more, people were growing dependent on electronics, and they often worked on their computers while they enjoyed a meal or drinks.

When he stepped into the Pub, Bo paused to look around the dining room, very aware of the butterflies that fluttered nervously around his stomach. The morning rush was nearing its end, but there were many customers still at their tables and booths, enjoying their meals. As expected, Shawn was at the bar preparing the various types of gourmet coffees that were so popular. Caroline would be in the kitchen preparing her famous home-made pastries and entrees. The aroma that lingered inside the dining room was enough to make his mouth water, even though he had already eaten breakfast. Nothing quite matched Caroline Brady's home-recipes.

His eyes came to rest on Kayla, who was seated in front of the bar with her back to the door, keeping Shawn company. Drawing a deep breath, he approached the bar.

"Hey, Pop."

Shawn looked up from the frappe he was making, and his round Irish face lit up with a smile. "Bo, good t' see yeh, lad. Can I get yeh a cup o' coffee or maybe one o' your Ma's cinnamon rolls."

"She outdid herself this morning," Kayla urged, indicating her empty plate. "I'll probably gain ten pounds before I head back to Los Angeles."

A cloud seemed to drift across Shawn's face. "Let's not talk about yeh leavin' us again. Not just yet. I'm too happy havin' yeh here."

"As tempting as the cinnamon roll is, I'll have to take a raincheck," Bo replied. Turning to his sister, he said, "Actually, Kay, your trip home may have to be delayed."

That got her attention, and her smile faded as she studied the seriousness on his face. "What do you mean?" Alarm replaced the curiosity and mild annoyance. "Is Hope okay? Shawn D.?"

"No, they're both fine," he assured her. "This is about you and Stephanie, and it's complicated. Look, is there someplace we can talk privately?"

Shawn was watching and listening, a frown furrowing his brows. "Somethin's happened," he guessed. "What's wrong?"

"Yeah, something's come up." He cast an apologetic glance at Shawn. "Pop, you'll find out soon, but because it involves Kayla and Stephanie directly, I need to talk to them about it before revealing it to anyone else."

"Sure, I understand," Shawn said, a bit disappointed. "You've gotten my curiosity up, but if it involves your sister, then of course yeh need to do her the courtesy of talkin' t' her first."

"Bo, I don't mind Pop hearing," Kayla objected. "You said yourself he's going to hear it soon, so why not just say it once to both of us?"

Bo sighed. "Let's just do this my way, okay? We need to talk in private."

"Okay," she relented as she slipped off the bar stool. "My curiosity is through the roof. Stephanie is getting ready to go to the mall with Kim and Jeannie, but unless they sneak out the back door, we should be able to catch them."

A peculiar expression of surprise flashed across Bo's face, clearly a face-slap moment that neither Shawn nor Kayla understood. "Kim and Jeannie! I forgot to mention that they're in town!"

Kayla and Shawn exchanged amused glances, then Kayla teased, "Bo, I know Kim and Jeannie are in town. I've been visiting with her."

"I wasn't talking about you," he retorted, then waved the comment away, deciding he would let Shane know later. "Never mind. That isn't important right now. What is important is that I speak with you. And that trip to the mall isn't going to happen. You'll understand once I've explained."

"All right. Let's go upstairs." She led the way to the stairs behind a door that was always locked to the general public. "Mom is still in the kitchen, so it's just Kim and the girls upstairs. Just don't be surprised if you're on Stephanie's bad list for a while," she said over her shoulder as he followed. "They've been planning this since yesterday."

"It doesn't give me pleasure to come between a couple of girls and the mall, but there will be other opportunities for that, once this is resolved. This is very important. Critical, even."

"You're starting to worry me," she said as they started up the stairs.

Bo did not offer any explanation as they went up the steps and entered the family's residence above the Pub, but when they reached the living room, Bo stopped.

"I think I'll wait here, out of the line of fire."

"Probably a good decision."

Kayla started down the hallway toward the bedroom, thinking about her brother's insistence that he speak with them immediately and privately. Despite her attempts at levity regarding Stephanie's probable reaction, she was troubled by the seriousness she had seen on his face. Something was going on, something important, but she could not imagine what could prevent the girls from their trip to the mall.

Because it had been on her mind, she wondered if perhaps it had something to do with the vandalism of the house, but even that would offer no logical reason for the secrecy or the ominous warning that the trip to the mall would not happen that day.

The sounds of happy laughter and animated girlish chatter drifted down the upstairs hallway as she approached the bedrooms, and she was not surprised to find Stephanie and Jeannie with their collective wardrobes spread out on the bed, where they had apparently been trying to decide what they needed to buy while at the mall.

"I didn't bring anywhere near enough clothes with me," Jeannie was saying, holding one of her blouses against her as she scrutinized herself before the mirror.

"Neither did I," Stephanie agreed. "Our trip was totally spur of the moment, so I had to just grab a few things. Mom said we could stop in Chicago on the way home and do some shopping there."

"My mom said the same thing. Maybe we can go together."

"That would be so cool!" Stephanie turned and saw her mother standing in the doorway. "Hi, Mom. We're just waiting for Aunt Kim. Did you change your mind about going with us?"

"No. I'm sorry, girls, but there's been a sudden delay in your plans, and mine also, I'm afraid," Kayla said. "You can blame your Uncle Bo for this, but he says he needs to talk to us about something. He says it's very important."

Stephanie exchanged a stricken look with Jeannie. "But we're almost ready to go! Can't it wait until we get back?"

"No. He stressed the point that it's very important, and that he needs to talk to us now."

"How long will it take?"

"No idea. He's waiting for us in the living room, so I need you to come with me. Jeannie, where's your mom?"

"I'm right here," Kim said, coming into the room from the hall. "I don't know what's going on, but Bo asked us to go downstairs while he talks to you and Steph." Turning to the bewildered girls, she extended her hand toward Jeannie in a beckoning gesture. "Come on, we need to clear out."

After another long glance at Stephanie, Jeannie went to her mother, and they disappeared down the corridor.

With a frustrated sigh, Stephanie followed her mother to the family living room where Bo waited. He offered an apologetic shrug in response to Jeannie's accusing look as she passed, then she followed her mother down the stairs to wait in the public dining room, leaving him alone with Kayla and Stephanie.

Stephanie's expression was much the same as Jeannie's, and he was compelled to say, "Sorry for interrupting your plans, Kiddo. I know how much you wanted to go to the mall, but I wouldn't be doing this if it wasn't really important."

"The girls will get over it," Kayla assured him. "The mall isn't going anywhere. So, what did you want to talk to us about?"

He gestured to the sofa and chairs scattered about the room. "Have a seat."

Kayla sat down on one end of the sofa, while Stephanie sat down on the other end. The girl tucked her leg under her and placed a throw pillow on her lap, her fingers twining in the fringe, eager to get the discussion over with.

Bo sat down in Shawn's favorite chair facing them, but his nervousness did not escape Kayla's notice.

"Bo, you look really uncomfortable," she said.

"I know," he admitted. "It's just that this isn't easy. All the way over here, I was trying to decide how I would say this. I want to make this as easy on you as possible, but any way I say it, it's going to be a tremendous shock."

Kayla's smile faded, and her expression became more solemn. "Sounds serious."

"Yeah, it is." He drew a deep breath, then released it in a frustrated sigh, understanding why Shane had found it difficult to explain, only with Kayla it was magnified ten-fold, for she was Steve's wife, the person who loved him most. "We don't really know how it happened yet, but Roman got a call yesterday from Shane -"

Bo glanced at Stephanie, who turned over her wrist to look at her watch, a pointed indication that she would rather be headed for the mall with Jeannie than listening to her uncle fumble for words.

"You said Shane called," Kayla prompted when he paused, momentarily distracted.

"Yeah, well. . . " He paused again, raking his fingers through his hair, searching for a starting point. "Shane was driving home from a meeting last night when someone walked in front of his car. He kind of bumped the guy, and -"

"That's terrible!" Kayla exclaimed with the concern of a doctor. "Is he all right?"

"Yes, he's fine. Shane went back to check on him, but –"

"That's great, but I don't understand what this has to do with me? Where is this leading?"

He raised his hand to silence her. "Kayla, that's what I'm trying to explain. It's hard enough without you interrupting."

"Sorry," she apologized. "I just don't understand where all this is leading, and what it has to do with me."

"It's leading to an announcement that is going to have a profound impact on both of your lives."

Kayla considered his words carefully, then gave a bewildered shrug. "I know you're trying to tell me something, Bo, and you're obviously trying to cushion me from what must be very bad news, and I appreciate that, but I wish you would just tell me whatever it is you're trying to say. I'm a big girl; I can handle it."

He gave a deep sigh and bowed his head toward the floor briefly. When he looked up again, he gave a nod of agreement. "All right, Kayla. It isn't bad news; just shocking and unexpected." He leaned forward and took her hand. "You've lived the last fifteen years of your life believing that your husband was murdered, but the truth is, he wasn't."

She froze briefly, the expression of surprise melted into deflated bewilderment. Even Stephanie, after exchanging a serious glance with her mother, had given him her full attention. "I don't understand. The boat explosion -"

"Kayla, Steve wasn't murdered. He wasn't killed at all. As crazy and miraculous as it sounds, Steve is alive."

For several moments, as Kayla processed the information her brother had provided, there was no sound in the room except the soft ticking of the clock, but her ultimate response was not what he had expected.

She stared at him in disbelief before her surprise gave way to anger. "I don't understand what kind of game you're playing or where you came up with this, Bo, but it isn't funny. I was with Steve when he died. I felt him grow cold in my arms. We buried him!"

Bo raised his hand as if to fend off her objection. "This isn't a game, Kay, and it certainly isn't a joke. You know I wouldn't do something like that to you. I'm just as shocked as you are but it's true. Steve is alive."

"This is not possible," Kayla whispered.

"It's true, Kayla. I wish there had been an easier way to tell you," he lamented his own clumsiness in delicate matters such as this. "Mom always said I'm a bull in a china shop."

Her eyes had filled with tears, and even in her distress she sought to comfort him by placing her hand on his arm. "No, it's okay," she assured him, her voice choked. "I don't think there is an easy way to say something like that." Her eyes bored into his, imploringly. "Are you sure, Bo? Are you absolutely sure? I don't think I could stand it if this turns out to be a cruel joke."

"It's no joke," he promised. "I wouldn't have told you if I wasn't absolutely sure. Shane brought him to Salem this morning. I've seen him, talked to him. Hope is with him right now, and he wants to see you."

She fell silent again and turned her head to look away from him for a few moments. She was mentally processing the information he had given her. He could sense the multitude of conflicting emotions that she was experiencing: Elation, confusion, disbelief. He remained silent, allowing her the time and space to deal with it without any pressure. She wiped her cheek, and he knew she was brushing away tears.

The mall completely forgotten now, Stephanie moved closer to her mother, at loss for words, her eyes large with the impact of learning that the father she had never met was still alive, but like Bo, she did not speak.

After several moments, Kayla broke the silence. "Is he all right? Is he well?"

"Yes, he seems to be."

She turned her head back to look at him, her large blue eyes glistening with tears. "Then why did he do this to us? Why didn't he let us know he was alive instead of letting me live with the loss every day for the last 15 years?"

"He didn't leave you by choice, Kayla. None of this was his doing. You need to understand that. He was taken against his will and held captive somewhere in England. He only managed to escape yesterday. We don't know all the details yet, but this was orchestrated by someone who has a lot of power, someone with the technology and ability to make it look as though he was dead in order to kidnap him."

"But who would do such a thing, and why? And how? Bo, Marcus pronounced him dead, and I watched him die!"

"I don't know the 'who' or the 'how' parts, but Steve told us they kept asking questions about the house you two were living in."

Something flickered in her eyes, as the component fell into place. "I went over to the house yesterday, and found that it had been ransacked. I asked Roman to look into it for me, and he found out that the house had been bought by someone using a name that is one of Alamain's aliases. This is more than a coincidence. Something is going on here, Bo."

"Yes. Steve told us they apparently think there is something hidden on the property; something they think he knows about and something they wanted bad enough to set up this elaborate scheme to make us think he was dead so we wouldn't be looking for him while they tried to get information from him."

"Did he mention if he had any ideas why they took him? What it was they were after?"

"No, he just said they were asking questions about the house. We haven't had much time to talk. I've only known about this for an hour or so, when Hope and I went to pick him up. Shane flew him in on a private plane, and Roman had us take them to a safe house."

Kayla's eyes flashed. "So Roman knew about this? How long has he known? Why didn't he let me know?"

"He didn't know himself. He told me that last night when he arranged for us to pick him up. He said that Shane never revealed the name of the man he was flying in, only that his life was in danger. Presumably, they want him back pretty bad. As far as I know, Roman still doesn't know it's Steve, unless Shane has told him by now. For what it's worth, Kay, when Shane wanted to set up a meeting to discuss the kidnapping, Steve refused to be questioned about any of this until he sees you and Stephanie first."

It was the right thing to say to reassure her, and he was rewarded with a fleeting smile. "He can be pretty stubborn."

"Yes, he can," Bo agreed. "He said he wasn't going to negotiate. Family first. There is an added concern, though, that these people might try to use you or Stephanie as bargaining chips to get Steve back."

"The black SUV," she said.

"You saw it?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes. How did you know about that?"

"When Steve told Shane what had happened, Shane requested an agent keep an eye on you because of the possibility that the kidnappers would try to take you or Stephanie in an attempt to use you as a bargaining chip to get Steve to surrender."

She gave a frustrated sigh, resenting the gesture, and yet grateful for it at the same time. "The first time I saw it was at the cemetery, and I had the impression that the driver was very interested in me. I thought I saw it again at the house yesterday afternoon, but then it disappeared, and I haven't seen it since."

"For some reason, he left you and followed Roman around for a while. He came back to the Pub this morning, but left when he was spotted. No one knows where he's at now." He dragged his hand through his thick dark hair, thinking. "If you saw him at the cemetery, that was before Steve made contact with Shane."

"It feels strange to think how vulnerable we were. We probably escaped being kidnapped by sheer dumb-luck."

"I know you both probably had plans for today," Bo said. "But you also know why it can't happen, at least until we know it's safe. I'm taking you both to the safe house, and you'll have to stay there with Steve until we catch these guys."

Stephanie looked anxiously at her mother. "Would these people really kidnap us?"

"It looks that way. Go pack your bags. Bring anything you think you'll need, including books, magazines, puzzles, things to help pass the time."

Stephanie did as she was told and went back to the bedroom to begin packing her belongings.

Kayla stood up more slowly, lingering in the room with her brother.

"Are you all right, Kay?" he asked, gently. "I know this was a shock to you."

"That's putting it mildly," she admitted. "I'm a bit overwhelmed. Even Marcus Hunter was fooled by whatever these people did."

Bo stood up and pulled her into his arms for a brotherly embrace. "Don't beat yourself up, Kayla. These guys were good at pulling this off. There's no way you could have known."

"Fifteen years are gone for good," she lamented. "We can never get them back-"

"But you have the future, now. A future together." He drew back from the embrace. "Go get packed. Steve is waiting for you."


	28. Chapter 28

"Shouldn't they be here by now?" Steve asked fretfully as he paced the living room of the safe house. Unable to sit down and relax, he remained on his feet, moving slowly around the room in obvious anxiety.

As he passed the window overlooking the front yard, he paused to part the curtains that Hope had explained were always kept closed to prevent the possibility of providing a target to anyone who might have somehow managed to evade the perimeter precautions. He noticed the worried look that Hope gave him and knew that she was about to make a negative comment, so he let the curtain fall back into place before she could scold him for being careless.

Regardless of her concerns, he was not worried about being shot through the window. Vaughn wanted him alive, and a tranquilizer dart would not penetrate the glass. That offered a certain amount of confidence that they would not use lethal measures, at least not until they had obtained the information they desired. On the other hand, it might not be a good idea to advertise his presence, so in an effort to ease Hope's mind, he moved away from the window and resumed his pacing.

"What's taking so long?" he asked. He reached up to drag his fingers through his hair, and was surprised to see that his hands were shaking, nervously.

Seating in one of the comfortable wing chairs, Hope had been watching him with sympathetic eyes as he moved anxiously around the room, understanding his desperate need to be reunited with his wife and daughter. In addition, she could not help but marvel at how well he had endured his years of imprisonment. Aside from being a bit thinner and less muscular, he looked remarkably the same as she remembered.

In response to his comment, she glanced at her watch to verify the time. "It just seems a long time," she said, gently. "They should be here soon."

"I swear, if those goons hurt her . . ." He didn't complete the sentence. The possibility was too terrifying to contemplate.

"I know you're worried, but Shane's agent has been watching her, and if anything had happened, Bo would have called us by now. Try to relax. Everything is fine."

He sat down on the sofa, sinking into the soft cushion. "My memories of her and Stephanie were the only things keeping me sane during those years. After all this time, when we're so close, I don't know if I could stand it if something happened to them."

"Nothing's going to happen, Steve," Hope assured him.

He fell silent for several moments, then asked quietly, "What if she doesn't want me back? What if her feelings for me have changed?"

"I promise, that hasn't happened. She loves you as much as she ever did." To help settle his nerves, she said, "You know, Kayla and I were just talking about you the other day."

His face turned toward her, the response she had hoped for, and waited for her to continue.

"She had been taking a tour of Salem, visiting all the places that had been important to you. She even went to your old apartment under Shenanigans, and then took a long walk along the docks. She was missing you a lot. She still loves you, Steve, and she's going to be so happy to see you again."

Steve was quiet for several moments, thinking about the pain Kayla must have suffered when he was taken from her. "I hate what those people did to her. To us."

"We're going to catch them and make sure they're punished for what they did. But in the meantime, just think about how happy she's going to be to see you."

Steve stood up again. "I can't relax," he protested as he walked toward the kitchen door. "I hate this waiting!"

A car door slammed in the front yard, bringing him around, an anxious expression on his face. Distracted by the conversation, he had not heard the vehicle that had approached the house. He turned his head slightly, his attention focused on the footsteps that pounded rapidly up the sidewalk to the porch. Someone was running toward the house.

"Steve?"

The familiar voice he had longed to hear all those long lonely years reached his ears like the sweetest music he could ever imagine. It was her! It was Kayla! He felt his heart leap with sheer joy at the eagerness he heard in the way she had called his name.

"Kayla?" he responded.

"Steve!" she answered.

Steve stared at the door, listening as a key turned in the lock, knowing that Kayla was just on the other side of it. In a moment, Bo would open it for her, and he would see her for the first time in eleven years.

"Kayla, don't!" Bo's warning was spoken sharply, but she paid no attention.

She had heard Steve's voice, identifying it as belonging to the man she loved, and that confirmation nullified everything else around her. Grasping the knob in her hand, she pushed the door open, setting off the alarm that was built into it, a horrible siren that that blared so painfully that Hope pressed her hands to her ears.

Neither Steve nor Kayla gave any indication that they had noticed the ear-splitting alarm. Kayla paused just inside the door, her eyes finding that of the husband she thought she had lost a decade earlier. She would have no recollection of running toward him or of him rushing to meet her. She would only recall that they were suddenly wrapped in each other's arms, both of them weeping tears of joy.

Bo quickly keyed the code into the keypad, silencing the alarm, then used his cell phone to call the officers at the gate. "It's okay," he told them. "The door got opened before the code was keyed in." He disconnected the call, then noticed that Stephanie was still on the porch, tentatively removing her hands from her ears, as to make sure it was safe to do so.

He made a beckoning gesture. "Come on in."

The girl looked at him with wide, apprehensive eyes, as if fearful of what she would find inside, then stepped over the threshold. Her gaze was instantly drawn to the couple in the middle of the room, her mother and the man she had been told was her father.

Bo slipped past her and removed their suitcases from the SUV, then brought them inside and placed them on the floor just inside the door. He then turned to his wife, and their eyes met in a moment of mutual understanding

Wiping tears from her eyes, Hope moved inconspicuously toward him, and they embraced, both of them moved by the emotional reunion. Not wishing to intrude on the private and very poignant moment, Bo said quietly, "I think they could use some privacy. Let's go to the Pub and explain all this to Mom and Pop."

Hope nodded in agreement, her smile trembling slightly.

Leaning toward Stephanie, Bo whispered, "We're going to split. Tell your parents that we'll be back a little later."

Stephanie looked at them, but did not respond. She looked bewildered, perhaps even a bit apprehensive about the changes that were occurring, and Hope pulled her into her arms for a supportive hug.

"It's going to be all right, Steph," she said, reassuringly. "He's a good man, and you're going to love him."

Steve and Kayla never noticed when Bo and Hope made their departure. Stephanie noticed, watching with large eyes as they stepped onto the porch and closed the door securely behind them. She gazed at it for several moments, as if longing to make an escape with them.

After a moment, she turned back to her mother, who was still locked in the arms of the man who was apparently her long-dead father. He certainly looked like the man in the pictures her mother kept in various places around the condo at home, but she did not know what to think and she did not know how she was supposed to feel. This was the last thing she had expected to find in her mother's hometown during this impromptu visit, and she was uncomfortable with the events that were unfolding.

She had listened in shocked disbelief as Uncle Bo had explained to Kayla what had transpired, but the only thing she really understood at that moment was that her life and everything she knew about her own family were about to make a drastic change. From this point forward, nothing would ever be the same. Her mother was obviously thrilled by her father's return, and that meant that he would be moving in with them.

Stephanie did not know exactly how she felt about that. As long as she could remember, it had just been her and her mother living in the three bedroom condo. There had been occasional visits from family members, but they were company and always left after the passage of a short amount of time. Steve Johnson would undoubtedly be returning to Los Angeles with them. It was going to be very strange having a man living with them.

He was not just a man, though, she reminded herself. He was her father, a man who, according to Bo, had traveled a great distance and endured many dangers just to get back home to them.

As she watched her mother's joyous reunion, she remembered how Kayla's persistent friends and co-workers had repeatedly attempted to set her up with friends or relatives. Although Kayla had reacted politely, sometimes even agreeing to go out with them, she knew it was a source of private irritation, and she had gently rebuffed them for their well-intended meddling, claiming that it somehow did not feel right.

Everyone knew that good mothers possessed some sort of remarkable sixth sense that enabled them to know when their child was being untruthful or when they were up to something they shouldn't be, but now she wondered if that extraordinary sense also included a bond with a beloved mate so strong that it had prevented her from seeking a relationship with someone else, anticipating the unexpected return of a love so strong that it took precedence over everything else, even presumed death.

Pulling her emotions in check, Kayla withdrew from the embrace and gently pressed her hands to Steve's face, as if to reassure herself that he was real. Their cheeks were moist with the tears that had been shed, their eyes glistened with the tears yet to be shed. "I can't believe you're really here!" she said, her voice choked with emotion. "I keep thinking it must be a dream, and I'm going to wake up and you'll be gone."

"It isn't a dream, Sweetness," he said, speaking the pet name he had given her early in their relationship, one of which Stephanie was aware but had never heard him speak. It was just a word, but it sounded different, somehow, when he said it; special, affectionate, and romantic. "I'm really here. I never wanted to leave you."

"Bo told me a little bit about the kidnapping. I don't understand how this could have happened."

He shook his head, slowly. "I don't either. I remember losing consciousness and believing that I was dying. When I woke up, I was somewhere else, someplace far from you and our baby girl." He cradled her face in his hands. "The only thing that kept me sane all those years was the hope that I could somehow get back to you."

Remembering that their daughter was there, Kayla took his hand and turned to face her. "Steve, this is our baby girl. This is Stephanie."

Fresh tears sprang to Steve's eye as he gazed at the 16 year old girl who stood hesitantly near the door looking disorientated and ill at ease. "Stephanie?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered.

"Sweetie, this is your papa," Kayla prompted.

"Mom, that's so old fashioned," Stephanie protested.

She knew her mother wanted her to give her father a hug and knew it was what he wanted as well, so she shuffled forward, feeling strangely awkward, even embarrassed, into the waiting arms of this man she did not know. At that moment, she was reminded of what she had said at the gravesite, when she had tearfully declared that she never knew what it was like to be hugged by her father. To her surprise, it felt nice. It was not like the hug from an uncle or a grandfather, and she felt a strange, painful lump rise in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. Almost of their own accord, her arms went around him, sealing the embrace.

"Oh, baby-girl," he breathed, kissing the top of her head as fresh tears streamed down his face. "You were just a little baby the last time I saw you, and look at you now! You're so grown up!"

"Can I just call you Dad?" she asked in a voice that sounded thick, unlike her usual tone.

"Sure," he replied. "You can call me anything you want. I'm pretty adaptable."

She pulled back then, that sensation of embarrassment returning, and took a couple of steps back, establishing an invisible boundary that Steve did not attempt to cross. She felt like she was on display, her mom watching silently from the sidelines as father and daughter were reunited.

Kayla noticed then that Bo and Hope were missing. "Did Uncle Bo and Aunt Hope leave?"

"Yeah, they said they were going to the Pub to tell Grandma and Grandpa," Stephanie replied, making an ambiguous gesture toward the door. "They said to tell you they'd come back a little later." She hesitated, then added, "Mom, do we really have to stay here?"

Kayla exchanged a glance with Steve, both of them understanding the girl's apprehensions. "I know it won't be any fun for you, Sweetie," Kayla said, "but it'll be good for us to get to know each other as a family again."

"Yeah, I know. Um, I guess I'll go up and check out the bedrooms. Which one's mine?"

"The one on the right of the stairs," Steve told her.

Stephanie picked up her suitcase and trotted up the stairs, and disappeared from view.

"I'm not sure I made a very good impression," Steve said, his voice drifting up the stairs where Stephanie stopped to listen, feeling suddenly guilty, realizing that her father had been as apprehensive and nervous as she was

"You did fine," Kayla assured him. "This is new to her."

"I know, and I understand a lot of what she's feeling right now. I felt the same way about Jo, when she first came back into my life. I'm a complete stranger to her." The regret in his voice was unmistakable. "I've missed so much of her life, and I know I can't expect her to accept me right off the bat, but I'm going to do everything I can to make it up to her. I'll give her the time and space she needs to accept this, but in time I'll earn her love and her trust."

"Of course you will," Kayla agreed, stepping into his arms again. "It feels so good to be in your arms again.

Stephanie knew they were hugging again, and the silence suggested that they were probably kissing as well, something she didn't really care to see. With a sigh, she continued to the bedroom that would be hers for the immediate future.


	29. Chapter 29

"Roman, it's good to see you again, old friend," Shane said pleasantly with an outstretched hand as Roman Brady stepped through the doorway of his glass-enclosed office.

"Likewise," Roman responded, grasping the hand of his friend and former brother in law. "It's good to see you too. I'm glad to see you made it over safely. I must say, though, I was intrigued by your phone call yesterday."

Shane immediately became more guarded, and Roman did not miss the furtive glance around the room, settling particularly on those within hearing distance. Most of the desks, he noted, were empty, and those officers who were close by were paying little attention to them, but Shane's caution was obvious, and he gestured toward the Roman's office. "We should talk in there," he suggested.

Roman made no comment, nor did he question the other man's prudence. If Shane believed the matter warranted precautions, then he understood the importance of the case made it necessary. He led the way into the office, then closed and secured the door behind them.

Shane watched while Roman drew the blinds to block out curious glances from the officers outside his office, assuring total privacy. "I apologize for the rather covert nature of all this, but I assure you, it is completely necessary."

"So, I take it Bo and Hope got your guest delivered to the safe house with no incidents?" Roman asked.

"Yes. I must say, I'm impressed with the landing strip you selected. It was perfect for my needs. I had no idea anything like that was there."

"Neither did Bo and Hope. I remembered it only because Pop mentioned decades ago that there was some problem with the pesticides that the duster was using. It was just one of those little obscure stories that somehow stuck in the back of my mind. I hesitated using Bo for the pickup, since he's so close to me, but there is no one I trust to do something like this more than him."

"You did good. Thank you for the discretion."

"So, what's all this about?" Roman asked. Stepping around his large desk, he sat down in the swivel chair and leaned his elbows on the blotter. "Who is this mysterious person of interest you told me about on the phone?"

Shane sank into the comfortable wing chair across the desk from him and rubbed his fingers in his weary eyes. The miles and the nearly sleepless night were starting to catch up with him. "You're absolutely not going to believe it," he said. "Prepare yourself for a major shock."

"Now you really have me intrigued!"

"I was called in to I.S.A. headquarters in London yesterday on a special assignment involving the highly sensitive and disturbing theft of some very high tech I.S.A. equipment. When I was returning home after dark, I came around a bend in the road just as a man stepped out of the trees right in my path. We both took evasive action, but I did nudge him with my car. Scared the hell out of me," he admitted. "I've never had anything like that happen to me before. Anyway, I stopped the car and ran back to see if he was okay." Here, he paused briefly, his expression reflecting the incredulous nature of the event. "To my utter astonishment, he recognized me when I spoke to him, and answered me in a voice I had never expected to hear again in this life. I swear, when I aimed my flashlight into his face, I thought I was seeing a ghost!"

"Who was it?" Roman asked when Shane paused again.

"Steve Johnson!"

For several moments, Roman's face was impossibly devoid of expression. He sat motionless at his desk, his arms folded on the leather blotter, looking at Shane as if waiting for the punch line of a bad joke.

The expected punch line did not come, and a frown furrowed his brown, understanding that Shane was totally serious. "Johnson?" he reacted in a surprised voice. "That's impossible."

"That's what I thought, but I'm here to tell you that he's very much alive, and by all accounts, remarkably well, considering everything he's been through."

Roman was still unconvinced, and he leaned back in his swivel chair to contemplate the impossible scenario that his brother in law had somehow done the impossible and come back to life. Years earlier, before Steve's marriage to Kayla, at the point when he was the most skeptical about the one-eyed man's integrity and his intentions, he might have made a derogatory remark about a bad penny always turning up. But, if true, this announcement was a very serious matter.

It was no secret to anyone that Steve had never been one of his favorite people, but at the end of his life, he had proven himself a good husband to Kayla, a good father to Stephanie, and had earned the rather grudging respect of the entire Brady family, including Roman. But now, with the shocking possibility that Steve might be alive, Roman's face darkened with anger at the sorrow his sister had endured as a result of what he automatically presumed had been a cruel hoax perpetrated by Johnson himself.

"I was at the funeral," he said, tersely. "I saw his body during viewing hours at the funeral home. Kayla was devastated by his death. How the hell did he pull this off, and for what purpose?"

Shane raised his hand to silence him. "Don't jump to conclusions about this, Roman," he cautioned in response to the anger he heard in his friend's voice. "This was not Steve's doing. He was taken while he was unconscious and at his most vulnerable. This was perpetrated so cleverly and with so much skill that they were able to deceive the medical personnel into believing he was dead. His wife included, I might add."

Roman's temper began to calm, and he nodded, acknowledging the medical professionals who had apparently been deceived into pronouncing Steve Johnson dead. There had been no doubt in Kayla's mind that her husband was gone, or in the mind of Steve's good friend, Dr. Marcus Hunter, who had been on staff at the time. "Any ideas how they did it?"

"Well, if Kayla hadn't been with him when he supposedly died, I might have assumed that the attending physician who pronounced him dead was in on the hoax, that they merely declared him dead, wrote up a false death certificate, and removed him from the hospital. The fact that she was present and was fooled into actually believing he had died right before her eyes, suggests the involvement of some very high technology, the likes of which we've never seen before."

"I.S.A.?" Roman asked, understanding the unspoken implication.

"I have no knowledge of anything in the I.S.A. with the capability of simulating death so completely, but combined with the theft and use of classified I.S.A. equipment, it would be my guess that the organization has acquired the technology and that it was used for this purpose. As I mentioned before, I was working on a case involving the theft of I.S.A. devices that turned out to have been used to implement Steve's imprisonment, so yes, given the fact that we know their technology was used to restrain him, it is logical to assume that it had a hand in executing his fake death."

"What kind of devices, if I'm allowed to ask?"

"Some are security devices of the types used by agents who have gone into hiding: Pressure sensors, door and window alarms, that sort of thing. My guess is, they used them at exit points just in case he managed to escape the basement room they were holding him in. Other missing items include tranquilizer guns and darts, which Steve says they used on him during a few previous escape attempts, high powered binoculars, and a high-powered listening device. There was nothing on that list of missing items that accounts for his presumed death, but I put in a call to my supervisor, and he's going to investigate it, and hopefully come up with some answers. It might also be that Steve can help fill in some blanks and provide clues, things he may not have even thought of."

"Unbelievable," Roman said, shaking his head slowly. "So he's the mystery man you were protecting; the reason for all the security measures."

"Yes."

Roman shook his head. "This makes no sense. I mean, this is Steve Johnson! What could possibly be so important about him that they would go to all this trouble to kidnap him and hold him prisoner all this time?"

"That, my friend, is the mystery, the one we're asking, and the one he's asking as well. He has no idea except that they kept asking questions about the house he and Kayla had lived in."

This brought Roman to rapt attention. "The house? It was vandalized at some point after Kayla moved out, and most curiously of all, it was purchased by someone with a name that is one of Lawrence Alamain's pseudonyms."

"Now that is interesting," Shane mused.

"It's looking more and more like there is something of value somewhere in that house that someone, probably Alamain, wants very badly. Badly enough to orchestrate this whole situation."

"And badly enough to hold Steve prisoner for an indefinite period of time while they tried to find it. He looked like he had been put through the proverbial wringer; exhausted, very long, tangled hair and beard, like he hadn't seen a barber in years, and very suspicious of me and everyone else."

"Some of that sounds a lot like the old Steve," Roman said, a small smile forming on his lips. "He was always suspicious of authority."

Shane gave an indulgent smile. "Yes, I suppose he was, but trust me, this was entirely different. He told me that he had been held prisoner all these years and had just managed to escape and was headed for my estate. I suspect he only came to me because he didn't know anyone else in England with the capability of helping him. He's not particularly trusting of the I.S.A. right now, and if the truth be told, I don't blame him."

"He's been in England all this time? How did he get there?"

"He has no idea, but one thing is for certain. These people want him back very badly, and they're willing to do almost anything to get him. They showed up outside my gate shortly after we got home, and I feel quite certain that they were using I.S.A. surveillance equipment to watch the house. We had to make a break for it, and luckily managed to lose them on the road. There is a mystery here, Roman, a mystery of which Steve seems to be the key, and we need your help to sort through it. Steve's death was apparently faked by someone with a lot of power and the means to accomplish it, but at this point, we can only make guesses. And that's why we need to figure out exactly what happened and for what reason."

"We need to set up a meeting with Johnson to find out more," Roman said.

"I had hoped to pull together a meeting this morning between you, Bo, Steve, myself, and a couple of local I.S.A. agents, but Steve was anxious to see Kayla and Stephanie and refused to cooperate until he had seen his family, so we decided on noon today over lunch, if that is agreeable with you. Obviously, we can't take Steve out of the safe house, so the meeting will take place there. Bo's going to pick up some pizzas or something. Maybe with input from all of us, we can start to make some sense out of all this."

Roman nodded. "Sounds good. Has anyone told Kayla yet?"

"Bo dropped me off at the car rental agency, then went to pick her up. He's going to explain it to her, and then take her to see him. I suspect this is going to be wonderful news for her."

Roman nodded in agreement. "I won't pretend to understand what she saw in him, but apparently it was a good match. I don't think she ever fully got over losing him. After years of avoiding this town like the plague, now that she's back, she's spent every single day driving around to all the places that were important to him."

Shane was silent for a moment, a flicker of emotion passing across his brow, thinking that sometimes that one true love never died. "Yes, well, it is my hope that between all of us, our own technology, and Steve's recollections, perhaps we can piece this thing together and figure out why this all came about." He stood up. "All right, well, I'll get out of here and let you get back to work. I want to get over to the I.S.A. office, and then if I have time I need to find a room for a few days, so I'll see you around noon at the safe house."

"I'll be there," Roman replied.

Stepping out from behind his desk, he accompanied his former brother in law as far as the door, then watched as the British man proceeded through the detective room and made his exit.

Even after he had gone, Roman lingered there for several minutes, pondering the stunning news he had just been given. Of all the people Shane could have brought to Salem under his protection, Steve Johnson was at the bottom of his list of likely candidates.

It was clear that whoever did this had a lot of power and a lot of technology at his disposal, and his thoughts went back to the fact that the house formerly owned by Steve and Kayla had apparently been purchased, without her knowledge of his identity, by Lawrence Alamain. More and more, he was convinced that it was a coincidental legitimate name, but Alamian himself. Perhaps at the meeting, they could start to piece things together in a way that made sense.

But in the meantime, he had work to do. Leaving the office door open, he returned to his desk and picked up the file he had been reviewing when Shane had arrived.

The morning rush was over when Bo and Hope arrived at the Pub. Wiping a tear from her cheek at the memory of Steve and Kayla's reunion, Hope reached across the car seat and her fingers closed affectionately around Bo's arm.

He turned toward her, saw her tear streaked face, and understood. His larger hand closed over hers. There was no need for words, for words could not describe the emotions they both felt at the return of their friend and brother-in-law.

After parking near the door, they walked into the Pub together, arms around one another as they had done when they were newlyweds. As soon as Bo opened the door, he and Hope could hear the typical sounds of a successful business; the clinking of glasses, silverware, and dishes, and the drone of conversation, but for the most part, it was obvious that they were cleaning up from the morning rush. A young busboy transferred dishes and glasses from the tables to the bus cart, while Shawn wiped down the counter with a disinfectant soaked rag.

There were still customers in the dining area, and Caroline emerged from the kitchen carrying plates of food for three of them, all occupying the same booth. Like a seasoned server, she carried a plate in each hand with the third balanced skillfully on her forearm.

"Hi, kids," she said cheerfully to her son and daughter in law. "I'll be with you in just a second."

When she reached the table, she placed each plate in front of the correct person, then stopped at a neighboring table to check on two customers who were just finishing up. She left the check with them, then followed Bo and Hope to the bar, where they spoke words of greeting to Shawn.

"Shawn tells me you took Kayla and Stephanie away with their suitcases, with no explanation at all," she said. "What's going on?"

Bo cast a surreptitious glance around the pub, taking careful notice that none of the patrons seemed interested in them. But he also knew that looks could be deceiving. "That's why we're here. To explain what's going on. Can we go upstairs and talk for a few minutes?"

Caroline and Shawn exchanged concerned glances, aware that he had changed course mid-sentence.

"Yes, of course," Caroline replied.

Seeing the worried expressions on the faces of her husband's parents, Hope added, "Kayla's fine, and truthfully this is mostly good news. There are some issues that need to be addressed, but there is no cause for worry. They're being taken care of."

"I have no idea what you're trying to say," Shawn said with a bewildered expression.

"Let's go upstairs," Hope asked, glancing at the customers scattered around the dining room. "We can't discuss this in public."

Caroline glanced at her husband again, then at the nearly deserted pub. Even though there were only five customers in the pub at the moment, good service was a staple at the Brady Pub, and Hope understood her concerns about leaving her customers unattended.

"Maybe there's an employee who can look after things for a few minutes?" Hope asked.

"Yes. I'm sure Janice can look after things." Raising her voice slightly, she called, "Janice?"

The young woman looked up from the cash register. "Yes, Mrs. Brady?"

"Can you watch the front for a while? Mr. Brady and I need to talk to our son and daughter in law."

"Certainly," she replied. "Take your time. I've got it covered."

"If anything comes up that you can't handle, we'll be upstairs."

"Okay."

Shawn led the way through the locked door, and they started up the stairs to the family's residence.

"Sorry to be so mysterious," Bo said as the family took seats around the living room. "You'll understand when we tell you what's happened."

"You make it sound so serious," Caroline noted.

"What we're going to tell you needs to be kept between us for the time being," Hope cautioned. "We're telling everyone who needs to know, but it must be done in a controlled environment, so the wrong people won't overhear."

"Is Kayla in some kind of trouble?" Shawn asked. "A malpractice suit or something?"

"No, nothing like that," Bo told him. "It concerns Kayla, but only through Steve. Mostly, this is about him. Like Hope said, for the most part, the news is good, but there is a mystery that needs to be solved, and until we do and until we catch the perpetrators, it could get a little dangerous. That's why Kayla and Stephanie have been taken to a safe place."

"This is about Steve's murder, then?" Caroline guessed. "Are you saying you found the people who did it?"

"It turns out that Steve wasn't murdered, Ma."

"He wasn't?" she asked, astonished. "But I thought -"

"I know, we all did. The fact is, we only just this morning discovered that Steve is alive."

"What?" Caroline gasped.

"How can that be?" Shawn asked at the same time. "We had a funeral! We buried him! We saw his body at the funeral home."

"We all did," Hope said. "But he wasn't actually dead. As far-fetched as this sounds, he was the victim of a very elaborate kidnapping by someone who went to a great deal of time and trouble to make every one of us, including his wife, believe that he was dead."

"But how could they pull this off?" Shawn asked, doubtfully. "Even Kayla, a medical professional, believed he had died! She would know, wouldn't she?"

"Our best guess is that they administered some kind of drug that somehow mimicked death, but we can't be sure of that yet. The I.S.A. is going to look into it. We're not sure exactly how they pulled this off, but one thing is for certain. They somehow got him out of that coffin before it was buried, and at some point, he was taken to England where he was held against his will all these years."

Briefly, Hope explained how Steve had escaped and walked to Shane's house, seeking help, and that he was now tucked away at a safe house. "The people who had him want him back very badly, and it appears he was just one step ahead of them all the way."

"That's why we took Kayla and Stephanie there too," Bo added. "Since these people want Steve so badly, there is a strong possibility that they would have tried to grab one of them to use as bait to try to lure him out in the open."

"But why?" Shawn asked. "I mean, there's nothing unique about Steve Johnson, is there? What is it about him that they wanted?"

"That is the mystery, Pop. He said they kept asking questions about the house he and Kayla lived in, and that seems to fall in line with Kayla's discovery yesterday that the house had been vandalized. Whoever took Steve apparently thinks there is something in that house, and they've been trying to get him to tell them where it is."

"And does he have any idea what it could be?" Caroline asked.

"He says he doesn't have a clue."

"Have you told Roman about this?" Shawn asked. "He's been looking into the situation with the house."

"Kayla told me about that," Bo replied. "Shane said he was going by to see Roman after I dropped him off at the car rental agency, so I'm sure he knows by now."

"This must be a dream come true for Kayla," Caroline said. "I was talking to her just the other night, and she's been missing him pretty badly."

"She's absolutely thrilled," Hope told her with a smile. "I haven't seen her so happy in a long time."

"And Steve?" she asked, hesitantly. "Does he feel the same way?"

"He told me that his memories of her were the only things that kept him sane all those years of his captivity," Hope added. "I know you both had doubts about him, but he really does love her."

"Thank you, Hope," Caroline said, reassured. She paused briefly remembering something, then said, "We still have a couple of boxes with some of Steve's things up in the attic. I'll see if I can find them too, and you can take them to him. The clothes may be outdated, but I'm sure he can use them."

"Jeans never go out of style, Mom," Hope said with a smile. "And he will be delighted, since he has nothing to his name except the clothes he's wearing, castoffs from his kidnappers."

"Oh, poor Steve," Caroline exclaimed. "I can't imagine having to start over like this, with no possessions at all!"

"The boxes survived the fire?" Bo asked.

"Actually, when Kayla sold the house and moved to California, she and Stephanie lived in a small apartment while she attended classes. There simply wasn't enough room for all of her things, so we boxed them up before she left and she rented one of those storage units until she completed her studies and could afford a bigger place. Shawn and I forwarded most of the boxes to her years ago, but we decided to move the remainder into the attic after the Pub was built, so she could stop the rent on the storage unit. The boxes that were left were Steve's things and some of Stephanie's outgrown baby clothes. We were keeping them until she was ready to go through them to see if there was anything she wanted to keep. The rest eventually would have been given to charity, I imagine."

"I think Steve will be very pleased that you've held on to them all these years," Hope said. "Can I help you?"

"Certainly. Bo, maybe you could go into the attic and look for the boxes. They're just regular brown boxes with Steve's name written on the side in black marker. They shouldn't be hard to find."

"You got it," he said, rising immediately.

Caroline smiled as she stood up, noticing her son's expression. "You're happy he's back, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am. You should have seen how happy Kayla was to see him. It's like I have my old sister back."

"That's true," Hope agreed. "She's our Kayla again!"


	30. Chapter 30

_Steve Johnson._

Traveling down the narrow, shaded road toward the designated safe house, Roman gave an incredulous shake of his head, still marveling at the astonishing news that Shane had delivered only a few hours earlier. While maintaining a carefully watchful attitude, checking frequently to be certain he was not being followed, he found it difficult to keep the image of his brother in law, long believed dead, from dominating his thoughts.

While he could not help but feel gladness for Kayla that the love of her life had returned, his personal feelings on the subject were complicated, and he was unable to shake the feelings of intense uneasiness. The complexity of the kidnapping, the duration of his incarceration, and the car that had followed him and Marlena the night before made it very conceivable that Steve had literally brought a dangerous situation to the doorstep of his entire family.

Given his rather shady past, Roman's first instinct had been that Steve was involved in something illegal and had suffered the consequences of some illicit behavior, but as he thought back to the conversation in his office with Shane, he was forced to reconsider that automatic, knee-jerk reaction. Shane was apparently totally convinced that the story that had been told was truthful. Based on that knowledge, Roman was compelled to accept the Englishman's explanation of Johnson's return as fact; that the one-eyed man was not responsible for the pain and heartache that Kayla had suffered over his death.

After leaving the police station, Roman had made many detours and direction changes, but there did not seem to be any suspicious attention directed at him. After the tail the night before, it seemed odd that he was no longer under surveillance, but he could only assume that the person was working another angle. The unknown aspect of that _other angle_ worried him.

Satisfied that he was not being shadowed, he braked the car as he approached the gate, and was instantly recognized by the guard who stepped up to the car, a rifle in hand.

"Chief Brady," he said as his commander rolled down the car window.

"How's it going, Norris?" he asked.

"Quiet and secure," he reported. "Martinez is taking his turn walking the perimeter, but there is no indication that any of the sensors have been broken."

"Well, hopefully it'll stay that way."

"Yes, sir."

Norris pressed the remote, and the gate swung open. Roman drove through, and glanced in his rear-view mirror as it closed behind him. The guard waited until it was fully closed, then faded back into the woods again, returning to the small surveillance building that was concealed by the dense foliage.

Roman followed the tire ruts through the narrow tunnel of trees and shrubs, emerging moments later in front of the small cottage that his department had used on several occasions to safeguard informants. Well outside Salem and in such a remote area, it had never been discovered by the criminals who sought to find and silence those who would testify against them.

There were no other cars parked in the driveway, so he knew he was the first to arrive for the meeting. Selecting the spot closest to the door, he stopped the car and turned off the ignition.

As he exited the vehicle, Roman paused for a cursory glance around the property, his dark eyes scanning the tree line that concealed the boundary fence, but his examination revealed nothing of interest, so he tucked his keys into his pocket and walked up the steps to the porch.

The closed door blocked his entrance, and the tiny red light on the security keypad indicated that it was armed, as it should be. Grasping the small brass knocker in the center of the door, he rapped it several times.

"Kayla, it's me; Roman," he called through the door.

"Come on in," her muffled voice called back.

With his forefinger, he typed the complex security code into the keypad, and the light switched from red to green. He then opened the door.

Kayla had approached the door, and was waiting behind it when he stepped through it. Her smile was radiant, beaming the joy she felt, and she practically danced into his arms for an exuberant hug. "Steve's back! Isn't it wonderful?"

Roman embraced her tightly, sharing her joy. "Yes, it's wonderful, Sis."

"This is the happiest day of my life!" she declared.

"I guess I'm the first," he said when they parted. Turning, he closed and secured the door.

"Yeah. Hope just called a few minutes ago. They were picking up the pizzas, then they'll be on their way. I haven't heard from Shane, but he doesn't have my cell number."

"He should be here -" A movement in the kitchen door drew Roman's attention in that direction, and he saw Steve Johnson emerge from it. He stopped, and the two men observed each other in silence for several moments.

Kayla laughed at her brother's startled expression. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'll be damned," Roman breathed.

Steve's expression was wary. From the very first, his rapport with Kayla's family had been uneasy, but his relationship with Roman had always been especially tense.

"Shane told me a little bit of what happened to you, and that he helped get you out of England."

"He's one smart dude," Steve said with unusual admiration. "I'd have swam the damn ocean if I had to, to get back to my family, but he certainly made it easier. He had a few tricks that kept the bad guys guessing. I owe him, big time."

A few moments of silence passed between them. Roman was aware of the guarded way that Steve continued to hang back, as well as Kayla's anxious expression as the two men regarded one another, and he knew it was up to him to symbolically bury the hatchet, so he stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "Welcome back, Steve," he said in an informal manner.

Steve's guarded demeanor relaxed a bit, and he closed the distance between them to accept the handshake. "Thanks, Roman. I was starting to think this day would never get here."

Roman's eyes met Steve's single eye, noticing a difference that he could not adequately decipher. It could have been merely a maturing from the openly rebelliousness of his younger days, but he suspected it had more to do with his treatment by his kidnappers, and he remembered Shane's assessment that Steve looked like he had been put through the wringer. Feeling strangely compelled to offer a gesture of comfort and reassurance, he placed his hand on Steve's upper arm and gave it a brotherly squeeze, then released him.

"So, I guess we'll be conducting this meeting in the kitchen," Roman said, not a question, but a statement of having been through other similar situations.

"Yeah. Bo thought it was a good place because of the size of the table," Kayla replied.

"That's why we put such a big table in there," Roman said. "We've had meetings there before, but we've never actually conducted a meeting over lunch, so this is a first."

"I like the idea," Kayla said. "It'll give it an informal feel, and make everyone more comfortable."

They went into the kitchen and found Stephanie there checking on a large batch of fudge that was still warm. She looked up and smiled in greeting. "Hi, Uncle Roman."

"Hi, squirt." Roman eyed the fudge, the aroma making his mouth water and his stomach rumble eagerly. "That smells good."

"Stephanie and I thought it would make a nice dessert for the meeting," Kayla explained the different flavors of fudge that were cooling on large trays. "We couldn't believe this place had all the ingredients we needed for chocolate fudge and peanut butter fudge and chocolate peanut butter swirl. Whoever stocked this place did a good job."

"I'll pass along the compliment. It was one of my lady officers. I figured a woman would have a better idea of everyday necessities than a guy."

The buzz of the intercom announced another arrival, and Roman went back to the front room to answer it, leaving the newly reunited family in the kitchen.

Steve slipped a square of fudge from the tray and took a bite. "Delicious," he said, approvingly. "Hopefully, those guys won't eat too much of it, and that'll save more for us."

"Well, if they do, we'll just make more," Kayla promised.

Roman returned a moment later. "The rest of the crew is here. While Bo and Hope were stopped at the gate, Shane pulled in behind them, so they're all on their way in."

"I'll get the plates," Kayla said. "How many people do we have eating?"

Roman did a quick mental sum. "Nine, including you and Stephanie."

"Nine?" Steve asked.

"Shane is bringing a couple of I.S.A. guys with him."

Steve's mouth tightened a bit, but Roman was distracted by the opening of the front door.

Kayla opened the cabinet doors and withdrew a stack of dinner plates, which she placed on the countertop. By the time that was done, Bo and Hope had entered the room. Bo carried three large pizzas from Torrelli's, Salem's favorite pizza parlor, while Hope carried a sack with four two-liter bottles of soda and a container of parmesan cheese. Instantly, the kitchen was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of pizza.

Steve inhaled the aroma. "You can't imagine how good that smells. I haven't had a pizza since before I left over a decade ago."

Stephanie was astonished and visibly sympathetic. "Wow, that's awful! I can't imagine going that long without pizza!"

Kayla said to Steve, "Stephanie thinks pizza is one of the major food groups."

"You mean it isn't?" he joked with a wink at Stephanie, and was rewarded with her smile.

"I wasn't sure what kind of soda everyone likes, so we got several different kinds," Hope explained as she placed the large bottles on the table.

Stephanie poured her favorite soda into a glass of ice, and as she was looking over the pizza selection that Bo had placed on the countertop, Kayla said, "Stephanie, I want you to take your pizza and eat upstairs."

"Mom!" the girl protested.

"No arguments, sweetheart. This could get pretty intense, and I think you would be more comfortable upstairs."

Stephanie suppressed her sigh, but did not argue. After selecting a slice of supreme pizza and a slice of pepperoni, she took her plate and glass and left the room.

"Steve," Bo said, placing a hand on his shoulder to gain his attention. "Ma has been keeping a couple of boxes of your belongings up in the attic at the Pub, and she sent them along with us. They're out in the car."

Steve looked quickly at Kayla. "You still have my things?"

"When we moved, I boxed everything up, but I couldn't bear to part with them yet, so Mom has been keeping them for me," she replied.

"Thank you," Steve said, pleased and overwhelmed. "And thank your mother, too. I thought everything was lost forever." He paused, remembering one particularly cherished item. "My harmonica?" he asked, hopefully.

Kayla smiled, fondly. "I could never get rid of your harmonica. In fact, I took it and your pool cue to California with me. They made me feel closer to you."

"You have no idea what that means to me," he said, his eye moist.

"And I have your favorite jacket," Bo said. "I'll return that to you as well."

Bo gave Steve a brotherly slap on the arm, but before either of them could say anything else, Shane entered the room followed by two men. Although Shane was casually dressed, both of the other men were wearing business suits, their shoes polished to a high shine, and carried themselves with an air of importance.. Both carried laptop computers, presumably for taking notes.

Steve's eye narrowed, dangerously. Everything about the two men suggested that they were I.S.A., the group that had been infiltrated by criminals.

"Everyone, this is Captain Mitchell and Agent Terrell," Shane said, speaking loudly enough to halt the individual conversations in the room. "They're going to help us sort through this mess and try to make some sense out of what happened."

With everyone's attention directed at him, Shane introduced each of them individually by name, and the agents spoke a pleasant greeting to in response to the welcomes they received. Last, Shane gestured toward Steve. "And this is Steve Johnson, the man who was held prisoner for so long and the reason for these extraordinary security measures."

The two agents nodded his direction, but the one-eyed man did not respond in kind, and the blatant distrust on his face prevented them from offering their hands. Instead, he stared at them with obvious distrust, clearly displeased that they would be in attendance.

The uncomfortable silence that permeated the room was finally broken by Roman. "Okay, everyone help yourself to the pizza and soda, and we'll get started on the meeting. Obviously, this will be a casual meeting, although we'll follow most of the standard rules."

A line formed at the counter while they picked up their plates and selected their preferred pizza, but Steve hung back, allowing the others to go first. Nudging Shane, he pulled him aside for a private word.

With a nod toward the two agents, he asked, "Do they have to be here?"

Shane followed Steve's gaze, observing the agents as they sprinkled parmesan cheese on their pizza slices, then Shane turned his attention back to Steve. "Yes, they're part of this investigation; two of our best investigative agents. They're here to help sort through all the clues and hopefully help us come up with the answers to why you were abducted and why you were held for so long."

Steve's trust in Shane did not extend to others within the Alliance. "Yeah, but how do we know they're who they say they are? Some of those guys who held me prisoner all those years were agents too, right? And we know that Vaughn has contacts inside the organization. How do we know they're not working for the other side? They know where my entire family is. How do I know they won't go to Vaughn with that information?"

"I understand your concerns, Steve, but this is different," Shane said, patiently. "These two have been carefully vetted and cleared by a number of screening panels. They're legitimate, I assure you."

"Well, excuse me if that doesn't inspire much confidence," Steve said hotly, trying to tamp down his resentment. "You didn't lose 15 years of your life to those clowns."

Hope, who had been standing a short distance away, placed her hand gently on his arm. "Easy, Steve. We know this is hard for you, but we need their resources."

As always, her gentle touch and logic seemed to sooth him, and he drew a deep breath and nodded. "I still don't like it and I'm going to be extra vigilant now that Kayla and Stephanie are here."

"All right, if we're all ready, let's get down to business," Roman said, raising his voice over the scattered conversations.

For a few moments, the only sound was the shuffling of bodies and clothing as they moved to the table, and the sounds of chair legs on the tile floor as they took their seats. Most of them had at least one wedge of pizza on their plate to eat while they prepared for the meeting.

Steve took a chair with Kayla beside him, their fingers entwined on the tabletop. Roman observed his sister with objection in his eyes.

"Kayla, you don't need to be here for this. Maybe you should go upstairs with Stephanie and -"

"Don't even go there, Roman," Kayla warned him sternly, her blue eyes snapping with offense. "I've been separated from my husband for 15 years. I'm not going anywhere!"

Steve could barely contain his smile of amusement, but his twinkling eye betrayed that emotion when Roman glanced at him, expecting his help in convincing her that this was no place for her. It was immediately obvious that he would find no support from him.

"It's too dangerous, Steve," Roman said, quietly. "There's no need for her to be involved in this."

"She's already involved in it," Steve told him. "I'm all for keeping her safe and sound, but she's been involved from the very beginning. She's the one who had to deal with the fall-out from my 'murder', and she's the one they might try to get to in an attempt to pull me out in the open. The more she knows about all this, the safer she'll be."

"He's right, I'm afraid," Shane agreed. "Steve and I talked about that before leaving England, and we both agree that Kayla is a likely target. That's why I put an agent on her to keep an eye out for her safety."

"I saw him," Roman said. "He was in the parking lot at the Pub yesterday evening after I talked to Kayla about the house. I kept wondering why he looked familiar."

"He is a longtime agent, so you probably remember him from when you were an agent."

"So, what is your opinion of the black SUV that has been following Kayla and me?"

"He was probably the one that was assigned by Vaughn to make an attempt on Kayla, although I have no idea why he might have been interested in you as well," Shane explained. "Agent Fox was just supposed to stay in the background and observe your surroundings to make sure no one tried anything. He told me he had noticed the SUV and was keeping an eye on it, and reported that it disappeared this morning. My guess is, he spotted our guy and decided it would be prudent to make himself scarce." Turning to Roman again, he added, "As for Kayla being here, until this is over, it has to be assumed that she is in as much danger as Steve. I think it's better that she knows what she's facing than to keep her in the dark."

There were several mutterings of agreement from the others.

Roman clearly not happy to involve his younger sister, but offered no more objections, accepting the reality that, like it or not, she already was involved simply through her association with Steve. "All right. For the benefit of Agent Terrell and Captain Mitchell, let's review what we know at this point." He gestured to Shane to open the discussion.

"At this point, we don't know a whole lot, I'm afraid," Shane said. "Steve and I talked a little bit at my home and on the plane, and he says they were very interested in the house that he and Kayla lived in prior to his kidnapping. They interrogated him about it repeatedly, and would not accept his inability to satisfy their questions."

"Kayla paid a visit to the house yesterday, and noticed that it had been vandalized," Roman added.

"Vandalized?" Terrell asked, directing his question to Kayla. "In what way?"

"Things tore up," Kayla explained. "Floorboards pried up, paneling on the walls pried off, bookshelves tore up, cabinet doors pulled off, things like that. And in the yard, a lot of holes, like someone had been digging. I stepped in one, in fact."

"Like someone was searching for something?" Shane asked.

"Yes."

"That coincides with the questions they were asking me," Steve added. "They wanted to know about secret passages, hidden rooms, hiding places in the walls; that sort of thing."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth, although they didn't believe me. There is nothing like that in the house."

"If the house isn't yours anymore and you haven't lived there for many years, why did you go out there?" Mitchell asked.

Kayla shrugged, puzzled that the agent apparently found it unusual that she would feel nostalgic toward the house. "This was my first trip back to Salem more than a decade, and I just went out there to visit some old memories. I assumed it would be occupied, and my original intent was to just look at it from the curb. I was surprised to find it abandoned, so I drove on up and started looking around. I just figured it was probably just kids or vagrants."

"Any idea what they might be looking for?" Agent Terrell asked from across the table.

Steve lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "No idea, but they wanted information pretty badly. Enough that they put me through hell and back trying to get it."

"The house seems to be the key to this," Terrell mused. "When did you buy it?"

"It was given to Kayla and me as a sort of a thank you gift by Nick Corelli. We had helped him after he had been badly burned in an auto accident."

"It's kind of sad that he felt he owed us for our kindness," Kayla added.

"That's some thank you gift," Terrell said, skeptically.

"Yeah, but he had it in his head that the house was bad luck to him or something," Kayla explained. "Pure superstition, but it made sense to him. He could have sold it, I suppose, but he didn't seem to want to do that. Instead, he gave it us."

"Who is this Nick Corelli?" Mitchell asked, typing the name on his laptop.

"He used to be a small time pimp," Steve replied. "In spite of all that, he turned out to be a pretty decent guy. Bought Blondie's and turned it into a place he called 'Wings'."

"Still, it seems odd that he would give you the house rather than sell it. Was there anything special about it?" Terrell asked.

Steve and Kayla exchanged glances, both of them thinking back to their first day in the house, and their exploration and discovery.

"Well, yeah. It dates back before the civil war, and while we were exploring, we found a couple of diaries and some old clothes from that era in a trunk in the attic," Steve said. "I mean, it was special to us, but I can't imagine that it would be of enough value to bring about everything that happened to me."

"We thought about publishing it," Kayla added. "But it seemed wrong to profit from Emily's personal thoughts and feelings, so we never did it. I suppose we could do it sometime and donate the profits to Civil War preservation." She glanced at her husband. 'I think Emily would approve."

Steve nodded his agreement. "Yeah, sounds like a good idea."

"Where are the diaries now?" Mitchell asked.

"I still have them."

The agents were typing rapidly on their computers, jotting down the information.

"Do you have it with you?" Terrell asked.

"No," she replied without revealing its exactly location. "We read it from cover to cover. I don't think they have any answers."

"What was in the diaries?" Terrell asked.

"Well, we read the first diary over several weeks, each of us taking turns reading aloud so we could enjoy it together," Kayla said. "It had been written by a Confederate woman, and her writing told the story of her involvement with a Union officer and his apparent death in a battle nearby, but then some months later we found the second diary which revealed that he had instead been captured by the Confederates, and her writing progressed until their marriage." Her fingers tightened around Steve's hand as she gazed into his face. "It's strange how some parts of their lives paralleled ours. She thought Gideon was dead, and I thought Steve was. Both turned out to be alive and held captive."

He lifted her hand and pressed it against his lips.

Mitchell frowned, recalling his history lessons. "Surely the events of the diaries did not occur in your house. I've lived in Salem most of my life, and there are no Civil War battlefields in the area."

The same thought occurred to Steve and Kayla at the same time, and they looked at each other with such meaningful expressions, clearly of one mind, that Roman asked, "What are you thinking?"

"That's it!" Kayla said, ignoring her brother.

"They're searching the wrong house!" Steve added.


	31. Chapter 31

For several moments, there was total quiet in the room as everyone gave Steve and Kayla their rapt attention, surprised by the unexpected new development.

"What are you talking about?" Roman prompted, breaking the silence.

"Emily's diary!" Kayla exclaimed. "Because we found it here, it was easy, while we were reading it, to imagine that the events had taken place in our house, but like Captain Mitchell said, it was too far north."

"Kayla and I talked about this after we had finished reading it," Steve said. "We know there were Confederate sympathizers in the northern states, but there simply would not have been a slave holding cotton plantation this far north, since cotton and tobacco both require a long frost-free growing season. Combine that with the fact that there aren't any Civil War battlefields in the area, and it became obvious that it couldn't have happened here. We decided that this house must have been Gideon Wyatt's family home, and that Emily's ancestral home was in the South somewhere. He must have moved his family up here sometime after the war."

"Sounds reasonable," Terrell murmured, still typing furiously to catch up with the dialogue. A surge of excitement seemed to riffle through the room. "Any idea where this other house might be? It could be the key to this whole thing!"

"I don't think the diary ever said," Steve said, turning to Kayla for verification.

She shook her head in agreement. "My guess would be Virginia. No particular reason except that Virginia was sort of in between the north and the deep south with the armies passing through all the time."

"And the family name was again . . . ?" Shane asked.

"Matthews," Kayla said. "I don't know her father's name, who would have been the owner of the house at the time, but her name was Emily, if that helps. She mentioned several brothers, but I don't remember their names."

"If we can find the house, we might figure out what this is all about," Bo said.

"I'll put someone on it; see if we can track it down," Shane said. "Maybe Vaughn or Alamain got wind of some Confederate gold or heirloom jewelry or something."

"Wouldn't that be something?" Hope asked.

"At today's prices, it would certainly be worth their effort," Roman agreed. "That provides us with some possible insight into why," Roman said. "I'd like to know how they managed to pull this off. Steve was in the hospital surrounded by doctors, and they could not detect a pulse. Even Kayla accepted his death as fact."

"I did some checking into that," Shane said. "At first, my contact at headquarters attempted to hedge, insisting that such a drug would be unethical, but when I reminded him of the importance of this case, he hemmed and hawed around a bit more, then finally admitted that the I.S.A. had indeed developed and experimented with some drugs around that time which had the capability of simulating death."

"Why did they develop the drugs?" Bo asked. "They sound too dangerous to even test on live subjects."

"They were very dangerous, and I think Steve is probably very lucky to be alive. The drugs are said to lower all vital signs to perilously low and apparently undetectable levels, and if the person is to be kept under its influence over an extended time, it must be re-administered periodically using a carefully prescribed ratio dependent upon many factors, such as height, weight, and age. Just a slightly wrong dose would be enough to put that person in a coma, or perhaps even kill him."

"He was so cold," Kayla remembered, thinking back to the most painful moments she had ever endured in her life.

All eyes around the table were on Steve, who was looking at Kayla, sharing the grief she had felt at the time. They were holding hands, and Kayla seemed to be concentrating on the warmth she felt in his touch.

"Although the drugs performed exactly as they were designed, they were never cleared for use on humans, being considered far too dangerous," Shane continued. "Back to your question, Bo, the drugs were developed for use in sensitive cases, where agents might find themselves in a situation that would be considered hopeless, where death might be inevitable at the hands of an enemy. Feigning death and being revived later might prove successful in helping them to survive such instances. They had been tested on animals with some success and some failure, but no one was willing to test the drugs on humans, so the experiments were abandoned."

"So I was the damn guinea pig," Steve said, bitterly.

"Unofficially, yes. One thing is clear; very few people were aware of the drug's development. I was unaware of it myself."

"Can we get a list of those who were," Roman interrupted. "They might be able to give us a clue on who did this and why."

"I've already requested a complete list. He was unhappy with my request, but after I once again explained to him the international ramifications of this case, he agreed to compile a list. However, he is concerned that interviewing them will tip off anyone who might be involved in this crime. I'm inclined to agree."

Roman sighed. "You're right. We'll need to discuss that further, and perhaps conduct interviews at a later time, when the risk is less."

"So how did they administer the drug to Steve?" Bo asked. "Kayla was with him pretty much all the time."

"The i.v. bag," Steve said promptly.

"You seem very certain of that," Mitchell commented.

"Like I told Shane, I had a lot of time to think about it. A short time before I lost consciousness, someone had come in to replace my i.v. bag."

"Do you remember what this person looked like?" Hope asked.

Steve shook his head. "I never really noticed anything about him. Or her," he added. "I've tried to remember the face, but there were always people coming into my room; doctors, nurses, aides, orderlies. My i.v. bag was changed several times and never by the same person."

"Shift rotation," Kayla explained. "And whoever happens to be available when its needed. Everyone fills in where needed during times of high demand."

"They all kind of ran together in my mind."

"So does that mean one of the doctors or nurses was in on it?" Bo asked.

"It doesn't even have to be a doctor or nurse," Kayla said. "Just someone with access to the i.v. bags. That increases the list of possibilities to anyone who was a medical professional."

"Or someone pretending to be a medical professional," Hope added.

"That's a possibility," Kayla admitted. "Scrubs are easy to obtain."

"So looking through personnel records for that tie would be pointless," Terrell concluded.

"I'm afraid so."

"Steve came up with an intriguing question during our conversations," Shane said. "His body was not embalmed, which is standard practice now, suggesting that the mortician or one of his employees might have been involved in some way. We need to find out if this particular mortician still works in the funeral home. He could provide us with some answers about how this was all set up and carried out."

"I'll check it out," Bo offered. "Kay, do you remember his name?"

"No, but I'm sure it's in the funeral records." She shrugged. "Unfortunately, they're at my condo in L.A." After another moment, she brightened. "The funeral home probably still has the records in archive. I'm sure they could find them, but I'll need to go with you. I don't think they'll release the records to anyone else but the next of kin."

"Okay, let's go," Bo urged, rising from his chair.

"I don't like the idea of you leaving the safe house," Steve objected, tightening his grip on Kayla's hand. "You're safe here, but they might be waiting for you out there."

"I'll be with her, Steve," Bo said.

"I'll go too," Hope added. "We'll keep her safe, I promise."

Bo withdrew the car keys from the front pocket of his jeans. "We'll be back in a few."

Kayla rose from her chair, and in response to Steve's worried expression, she gripped his shoulder in a reassuring squeeze and an affectionate pat, then followed Bo and Hope through the living room toward the front door.

None of them noticed that Stephanie, who was supposed to be eating her pizza and soda upstairs, was in fact sitting on the steps partway down, listening to everything that was being said in the kitchen. As her mother and aunt and uncle passed through the room, she shrank back into the shadows in the stairwell and waited until they had closed the door behind them, then resumed her position at the banister, listening with interest as the meeting continued.

"Were you kept in the same house for the entire fifteen years?" Mitchell asked.

"No. I don't know where I was kept before, but it was similar; just an underground room, a basement or cellar."

"How were you restrained when you were moved?"

"I was drugged. I noticed that the coffee tasted bitter one night, and the next thing I knew I was waking up in another place. That's how I knew they were planning to move me again the day I escaped. I tasted that same bitterness in the coffee, so I poured it out and pretended to be unconscious when they came to check on me. They let their guard down."

"During that time, did they ever tell you how you had come to be in England?" Terrell asked. "Did they tell you anything about themselves in conversation?"

"They didn't tell me squat," Steve retorted, bitterly. "The only time I saw them was when they brought my meals or interrogated me about the house. They never even told me that I was in England, but I knew I probably was because all my guards had British accents." A pensive expression crossed his face, and they waited, realizing that he was pondering a thought. The expression lingered, even when he spoke again. "One thing was odd, though. At first, they seemed very interested in my health, and every so often a guy came in that I assume was a doctor. He gave me complete physicals; blood tests, cardio, respiratory, the works. Pretty often, at first, then less often as time went by."

Puzzled glances were exchanged around the table.

"Why would they be interested in your health?" Terrell asked.

Steve spread his hands, palms up, in a bewildered gesture. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"My guess would be that it relates back to that drug they used to simulate his death," Shane said. "As I mentioned, it's a very dangerous drug, and it's entirely likely that they were concerned that it had caused some kind of damage to your health. If they needed you for information, it makes sense that they would want to monitor your health carefully, at least until they got whatever it was they were looking for."

"That sounds reasonable," Mitchell agreed.

"You were confined for a remarkable length of time," Terrell observed. "They never removed you from the basement room at all, except to move you that one time to a new location?"

"Correct," Steve replied.

"They saw to all your basic needs?"

"Very basic," Steve snorted. "They brought my meals, but they were rarely anything special. Mainly sandwiches, like the kind you find in coolers at convenience stores, or cheap frozen dinners. They brought me those toothbrushes that your dentist gives you for free, probably because they preferred to buy something better for themselves. I had a lavatory, but it consisted only of the toilet and a sink, meaning that I had to take 'military baths'."

"So they only opened your door if they were bringing your meals?"

"Or if they wanted to interrogate me. If you're wondering why I didn't overpower them at some point during those years, there was always a second guard behind him with a dart rifle in case I tried to make a run for it."

"Did you ever try?"

"Yes. Almost made it, one time. I hit Jennings over the head with the food tray and shoved him into Harding, which knocked them both down. The rifle went flying across the room, and I made it as far as the stairs before I heard the gun go off and felt the dart hit my back. A few moments later, everything went black."

"You woke up back in your room on the bed?"

Steve hesitated, and his expression of discomfort indicated that they were moving into territory that he didn't really want to cover. "No," he said after a pause.

"So you were taken someplace outside the room?" Terrell asked, looking up, believing he had caught Steve in an untruth.

"No, I was in the room, just not on the bed."

"On the floor, then?" Terrell pressed.

There was another long pause before Steve said, "I was strapped in a chair."

Responding to Steve's unease, Terrell looked up from his computer again, sensing that something had occurred that he was reluctant to talk about.

Observing that Steve was growing more and more uncomfortable with the line of questioning, Roman and Shane exchanged uneasy glances. Both knew that even in his desire to apprehend the men who had kidnapped him, Steve would tolerate the uncomfortable interrogation only to a point.

Terrell spoke again before either could intervene. "Were you punished?"

Steve stared at the scuffed table top without answering, and both Shane and Roman realized that he was withdrawing from the conversation.

Terrell, however, pressed on like a dog with a bone. "In what way? What did they do?" When Steve failed to respond, he asked, "Were you tortured?"

Steve stood up abruptly, the chair legs scraping noisily on the tile floor, and he moved to the kitchen counter. Placing both hands on it, he leaned over it as he gazed out the window, his back to them. "Look, I don't' want to talk about this. I just want to get those guys so my wife and my daughter will be safe."

Shane recognized the stress in his voice and saw the whiteness of his knuckles as he gripped the edge of the counter, and understood that he was being pushed to the point where he might refuse to cooperate further. "I think we're due for a break," he suggested.

Mitchell and Terrell started to protest, their voices colliding to the degree that neither could be understood, but Shane raised his hand for silence and shook his head, a silent warning. Both men fell silent, but their frustration remained evident on their faces.

"Sounds like a good idea," Roman said in agreement to the break.

Shane joined Steve at the window, observing his face in profile, but did not touch him. Something about the one-eyed man's posture suggested that he would not welcome the gesture, even if offered in comfort by a friend. "You all right?" he asked, quietly.

"Yeah. Thanks for insisting on a break."

"Well, I know interrogations like this can be draining." Shane kept his voice low, and his perception of the negative way it was affecting him seemed to sooth Steve a bit. "Unfortunately, they are necessary to build a case against these guys. However, when we come back to the table, I'll steer the line of questioning in another direction."

"Thanks, man," he said, his voice sounding like a sigh of relief.

An old tire that was hanging from a tree limb attracted his attention, and he stared at it, deep in thought. Presumably, it had been placed there by a previous owner, and then left in place when it became a safe house.

"I need some air," he said hastily, turning around to face Roman. "Is there any reason why Stephanie and I can't take a walk around the yard? I'm sure she's going as stir-crazy as I am."

"I'd rather you didn't," Roman began, but something in Steve's expression warned him of a possible lack of cooperation if he did not give a little slack. "But if you're determined, both of you will need to stay on this side of the house where we can see you from the window. If you're out of sight for more than 60 seconds, we'll come looking for you."

Listening from the staircase, Stephanie knew that her father would be coming up the stairs for her, and he would be upset and embarrassed if he knew she had been listening to the current conversation. Snatching up her empty plate, she bounded quickly and quietly up the stairs and went into her room.

The plate was placed on her dresser, and she went to the window to wait for him, thinking about the things she had heard downstairs. She knew her father had probably been treated badly by the people who had kidnapped him, but her youthful mind had never considered just how badly it had been. He had not admitted to those men downstairs that he had been tortured, but she could hear it in his voice and in the silence before his answers. That left her with a strange sense of wonder about this man who was her father.

"Are you interested in breaking out of this joint for a few minutes?" his voice asked from the doorway.

She turned to face him, noticing that his voice was strained, and his face seemed pinched. The questioning, she realized, was physically and mentally stressful, and he needed to get away from it for a while to clear his head and think of things other than the terrible way he was treated.

She understood that this was an effort to get acquainted with the daughter who had been just a baby when he had been kidnapped, and although she had no memory of him, she felt a desire to know him better.

"You bet I am!" she replied.

"They're only going to let us step outside in the yard, but at least it will be out in the fresh air and sunshine."

"Sounds great, Dad." She had hesitated slightly over the word "dad." It seemed foreign to her, a word she had never used to address anyone directly, but of course she did not say so. "It'll be great to be outside for a few minutes."

His face seemed to relax at her willing response.

He stepped away from the door, allowing her to exit, and they went down the stairs together. Roman was standing at the front door, and he punched in the code to deactivate the alarm and gave Steve a warning look as they walked through it. Stephanie understood the look as well as Steve did; it served as a reminder that they were to remain close enough for the agents to protect them.

Stephanie felt an ominous chill as she stepped through the doorway into the open air. With her youthful feelings of invincibility, it had been difficult to conceive of the fact that she, as well as her mother and father, were in constant danger of kidnapping in order to obtain whatever information they thought her father possessed, but in Roman's warning expression, the full impact of it struck her with full force, and she found herself looking around with uncertainty, wondering if anyone was hiding in the lush foliage that surrounded the house.

If her father felt any such reticence, he did not show it. Instead, he turned his face to the breeze and closed his eye, remembering the way it had felt during his first moments of freedom following his escape after more than a decade of captivity. Under extreme panic and pressure to get as far away from there as possible, he had been unable to take pleasure in that moment, so he paused to do so now, enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the breeze in his longish hair.

Stephanie watched him, understanding what he was doing. To her, the breeze had always been just an annoyance that blew her long hair into tangles or blew her homework away the time she had dropped her notebook, but to her father at that moment, it was a whisper-soft caress, the sweet breath of angels, or some other romantic notion.

"Until my escape, I hadn't felt the wind or the sun on my face since the boat explosion," he explained, noticing the way she was watching him.

Stephanie spoke hesitantly, curious about his life in captivity, but worried about upsetting him. "What was it like, you know, being locked up like that, unable to go anywhere. I mean, I think I would go stark-raving mad if I could never get out of the house."

"Losing your freedom is the worst thing that can happen to anyone," he told her. "I never had a full understanding of what it means to be truly free until I lost it. Freedom means living your own life as you see fit, owing no one, making your own decisions, earning your own way. You succeed or fail on your own merit. Being in control of your own life is the most wonderful thing in the world, and I'll never again take it for granted."

That did not quite answer her question, so she rephrased. "How did you pass the time?"

They began walking slowly around the side of the house toward the kitchen window, where he knew the agents would be watching out for his safety, but while they walked side by side, they did not hold hands and Steve made no attempt to put his arm around her, even though he very much wanted to. This was part of the getting acquainted process, and he would not pressure her.

"Well, I'm afraid they didn't go much out of their way to provide me with things to do," he told her. "One of the guards sometimes brought me a book to read, or a crossword puzzle book."

"That's it?" Stephanie asked, horrified. "Just reading and working puzzles? Wow, that's awful!" she exclaimed, unable to fathom how someone who live without the internet. "I can't imagine not having a computer or being able to surf the 'net. It makes it so easy to keep up with your friends on the social networks and emails."

"Yeah, I was really deprived," he said.

She looked into his face and saw that his eye was twinkling, and knew that he was teasing her. Her cheeks grew warm, which made him chuckle. "Mom told you I spend a lot of time on the internet, didn't she?"

"Oh, she may have mentioned something like that."

"She installed a filter on the computer that restricts which sites I can get into," she said, a hint of a complaint in her voice. "I mean, I'm sixteen, you know? I'd think she would trust me a little better than that."

"I don't think it's that she doesn't trust you," he said in a kind voice. "More likely, she doesn't trust those nameless, faceless people out there using the internet too. From what Shane told me, there are a lot of bad guys out there looking for pretty young girls like you. Sounds to me like she's just being a good mom. And I'd be willing to bet that as you grew older, she started easing back on the restrictions to keep them age appropriate, right?"

He understood more about the internet than she had realized, and she realized that he intended to back up Kayla's parenting decisions. Some of her friends played one parent against the other, and he was letting her know up front that it would not be tolerated. She shrugged. "I guess."

"I know you're growing up and you're ready to stretch your wings a bit." They fell silent for several moments, then Steve said, "I've never used the internet. You'll have to show me how all that works. Now that I'm back, I'll need to know all that stuff."

"Sure!" she said with growing enthusiasm at the thought of teaching her father how to use things that were commonplace to her. "That would be great. Mom has a computer that she uses to email family and friends, so we can either set you up with a separate email account on her computer, or we can get you one of your own. You'll probably just want one of your own. Oh! And we need to get you a cell phone." She looked quizzically into his face again. "Did they have those when you left?"

"There were portable phones on the market back then, but they were pretty big and chunky, and it wasn't quite as common as it seems to be now. At the airport in New York this morning, I couldn't believe all the people who were sitting and standing around either with a phone stuck to their ear or texting on them. When I left, if we needed to make a phone call, we just found a pay phone. Are those still around?"

"Yeah, you can still find them in a few places. Not everyone has a cell phone, I guess, but most people do. Mom has one so the hospital can contact her if they need her."

"Does that happen very often?"

"Sometimes. Especially if they have to reschedule or one of her patients has an emergency, stuff like that." She glanced toward the large tree, and exclaimed, "Hey, there's a tire-swing!" She hurried toward it, and grasped the rope in her hands. "Do you think it's safe?"

He walked underneath it, looking up at the knot, and grasped the rope in his hands and tested its strength by leaning back on it with his full weight, and gave it a few sharp tugs. "Seems to be."

She climbed into it and pushed off with her feet to start it in motion. "I always wanted one of these, but we live in a condo and don't have our own yard. There's a neighborhood park across the street, but it doesn't have any swings."

"I had planned to hang one for you when you were old enough," he told her. "I even had the tree picked out in the backyard that I was going to hang it on. I was going to buy you a swing set, too, one with a slide. I had so many plans."

He stood behind her and pushed each time she swung back, watching with a pleased smile as she leaned back on the upswing, her long hair nearly brushing the ground. She was clearly enjoying herself, but not nearly as much as he was. This was the sort of thing he had always wanted to do as a father; to be the good father to his own child that Duke Johnson had never been for him and Jack and Adrienne.


	32. Chapter 32

Kayla hesitated on the sidewalk, gazing at the wide brick building that stood before her.

That building, for all its innocuous appearance, had been a key player in what had not only been the worst period in her life, but a possible silent witness to the crime that had been perpetrated against her husband. There, in one of the viewing rooms, Steve had lain in repose in the days before the funeral, and with Shane's information that additional dosages of the drug would have been administered to keep him under its effects, it would have been a convenient place for those additional doses to have been dispensed. Anyone pretending to be a friend or mourner would have had almost unlimited access to him during viewing hours. Beyond that, even, if the mortician in question had been part of the plot.

Unaware of his sister's hesitation, Bo opened the door and he and Hope stepped inside, leaving Kayla to linger on the stoop, overcome by the unexpected emotions that were swelling inside her. Like the fatal swoop of a dark bird of prey, the painful flashback of her last visit to that place plunged her into a sudden and profound sensation of melancholy. _Steve had been alive._ If only someone had noticed, if only someone had realized, all those lonely years without him could have been prevented.

"Kay?"

Forcing her eyes from the sign, she saw that Bo was standing in the doorway, holding it open. When she hadn't followed them inside, he had come back looking for her.

"You all right?" he asked in reaction to her anxious expression.

"Sorry," she said, trying unsuccessfully to put on her usual cheerful expression. "Just being foolish, I guess. This place has some really bad memories for me. It's so surreal to be back here, like if I step through this door, the last few hours will just vanish, and Steve will be lost to me again."

Hope stepped back outside and placed comforting arms around her sister-in-law. "It's all right, Kayla. Steve is really alive. It's not a dream, and if we're lucky, we'll get some answers here about why this was done to him."

Still, she hesitated, reluctant to revisit the scene of her unspeakable grief.

"Maybe some kind of written consent from you will be enough to get them to open the records for us," Bo suggested. "That way, you won't have to come inside. You could wait in the car."

She drew a deep, steadying breath. "No, I think I need to do this; to be a part of it. Steve is okay," she added as a reminder to herself.

"He's absolutely okay," Hope agreed. "And when we get finished here, we'll take you back to him."

Steeling herself against the flood of memories that assaulted her from all sides, Kayla stepped through the door. Her eyes were immediately drawn down the narrow corridor to the viewing room where Steve's body had lain. The door was closed and another name was on the plaque beside it, but she felt her throat constrict in reaction to it.

Bo saw where her eyes had strayed and understood the stricken expression that flashed across her face. It was his hand on her elbow that brought her back to reality, and she turned to look into his face.

"It's all right, Kay. You know he isn't there; he's back at the safe house, waiting for us."

She paused a moment to regain her composure. "I'm fine. It just seems so strange now, knowing that Steve was alive when he was lying in that coffin in the viewing room. I can't help but question my medical abilities. I should have noticed something. I could have spared all of us those terrible years without him."

"Don't beat yourself up, okay? Even the doctor who pronounced him dead was unable to tell that he was actually alive. All the monitoring equipment said that he was dead."

"Bo's right," Hope said in a firm but kind voice. "You heard what Shane said about that drug. This wasn't your fault."

"I know, but it just doesn't seem possible that any organization, even the I.S.A., could produce something that could so thoroughly fool everyone. There must have been signs that we didn't pick up on. That _I_ should have picked up on."

"We don't know that," Hope said, gently.

"Well, I think one thing is obvious," Kayla said, her eyes straying toward the viewing room again. "Shane said the drug had to be re-administered several times to keep him under. It was probably done right here, when no one else was around."

Hope nodded. "You're probably right. There would have been ample opportunity for that, especially if the mortician was in on it."

"You still don't have to do this," Bo reminded his sister. "If they won't turn over the records, we could even get a court order, if necessary."

"No, that would take too long." She drew a deep breath. "Let's just get this over with, so we can get back to Steve."

The reception alcove just inside the door was empty, but the large wooden desk and computer indicated that its occupant was present, just not at the desk at that moment. As they approached it to wait in the chairs that were scattered about the area, a young man stepped out of an adjacent office, alerted to their presence by their voices or perhaps by the opening of the front door.

"I hope you haven't been waiting long," he said, apologetically. "Clarice stepped away from her desk for a few minutes, and I was on the phone with a client. How may I help you?"

Although dressed in the typical black suit of a funeral home employee, he did not quite fit the television stereotype of the tall, willowy, somber-faced mortician portrayed so many times on movie and television screens. To the contrary, he was shorter, fairly muscular, and pleasant faced. He looked curiously from one to the other, waiting for someone to speak, but Bo and Hope deferred to Kayla.

Taking her cue, she stepped forward. "My name is Kayla Johnson. We used your facility for my husband when he passed away fifteen years ago. We're trying to contact an employee who was here at the time. Would you be able to help us with that?"

"Well, if you're needing help with another funeral, I'm sure I could –"

"No, no. We're not in need of another funeral. I just need to ask him some specific questions relating to my husband's funeral."

"Oh, I see. Do you have the name of the agent?"

"Not with me, no. I've since moved to California, and that is where my paperwork is. I wondered if perhaps you kept those records archived."

"We do, but since that information is available to family only, I will require photo identification before I can open them," he told her. "We have strict privacy restrictions."

"I understand." She was prepared for that, and had her driver's license and her hospital identification card handy.

He looked at both of them carefully, comparing the picture in each one to the woman who stood before him, then, satisfied that she was who she said she was, he passed them back to her and offered an accommodating smile. "Very well, Doctor Johnson. The original files are kept in storage off site, but we have that information archived on our data base. Follow me."

Bolstered by the hope of finally bringing the mystery to its conclusion, they followed him through the reception area and into his office. He took a seat behind a rather cluttered desk with a nameplate that read: Devon Tyler. He gestured them to take the guest chairs. Kayla and Hope took the chairs nearest his desk. Several more chairs were against the wall, but rather than drag them forward, Bo merely stood behind his wife.

After booting up the database, Tyler asked, "What is the name of the deceased?"

"Steven Earl Johnson."

He typed in the name. "And what is the month and year of his death?"

"October, Nineteen-ninety."

"Ah, yes, here it is. Steven Earl Johnson, passed away on October Twenty Second, Nineteen-ninety. The agent who handled your husband's case was Clifford Wilkins."

Bo withdrew a note pad from his pocket and wrote down the name. "Does he still work here?"

"No. He had terminated his employment before I was hired. I've been here eight years, so he's been gone a while."

"Any idea when he left, or where he went?"

"I don't have access to the personnel records, I'm sorry."

"Is there anyone here who does? It is very important that we speak with him."

"No. You would probably need to speak to our personnel director, Mrs. Shipley, but I'm afraid she isn't here today."

Bo withdrew his badge and held it up for him to see. Tyler's eyes lingered on the badge for several moments, then lifted to Bo's face. Satisfied with the attentive response, Bo asked, "Would you please give her a call? This man may have been involved in a crime, and it's imperative that we talk to him."

"Are you talking about Clifford?" asked a rather gruff voice from the doorway.

Everyone turned toward the older woman who stood there scrutinizing them with sharp eyes that peered at them over the rims of her glasses, which were attached to a chain around her neck. She had apparently been listening, unnoticed, for several minutes.

"Yes, we are," Kayla said.

"I can contact Joyce Shipley, if necessary, but I was here at that time, so it might be that I can help you without having to disturb her day off."

"Do you know where we might find Mr. Wilkins?"

"I was hoping you might tell me," she retorted in the confident, authoritative voice of a long term employee with authority within the company. "He skipped out some fourteen or fifteen years ago. The curious thing was, a fairly expensive casket disappeared at the same time. He and the casket both just vanished, and have not been heard from since! I remember it quite vividly because, as you might imagine, it was a topic of discussion for quite some time! It's the first and only time we've ever lost a casket!"

"Who was the casket for?" Bo asked, intrigued. "A family member, perhaps?"

She shrugged. "No idea. He never mentioned a relative having passed away. In fact, as I recall, we didn't even find out about it until after he had gone." She paused, frowning in deep thought. "That was a long time ago, mind you, but I do remember he had ordered two identical caskets. That is sometimes done when two family members pass away together, such as a husband and wife, so that in itself was not terribly unusual. What was odd, though, was his insistence that they be absolutely identical in every way, that there be absolutely nothing that separated one from the other in outward appearance, right down to any possible variations in the finish. That demand stuck in my mind, since no one has ever been that adamant before. They had to be exact mirror images, he said."

"Would you be able to find out who purchased those identical caskets?" Bo asked.

"I could not reveal the names without a court order, but I will tell you that one casket was bought and paid for by a client. The other simply vanished from the storeroom. We didn't discover it missing until after he had gone. It had been purchased for a different client, according to the requisition that Cliff had filled out, but when we called to notify that client of the theft, we found that the person did not exist, at least not here in Salem. We never found him and he never inquired about the casket that had been ordered."

"Was the name Frederico Vitela?"

She shook her head. "It's been too long; I can't remember."

"Did anyone try to locate Mr. Wilkins?" Hope asked.

"Yes, one of our other representatives went to his place to make sure he was all right. We were worried when he didn't show up for work and didn't call in. His apartment had been cleaned out and there was no sign of him."

"Did you notify the police that he was missing?" Bo asked.

She shrugged, as though the thought had not occurred to her. "Didn't seem much point. Paul looked in the window and saw the place was bare. The furniture and all his belongings were gone, and the apartment manager said he had returned the key, so it seemed obvious he had left on his own."

"Still, doesn't it seem odd that he would pack up and leave town without letting anyone know?" Hope asked. "That just seems so abrupt."

She shrugged. "I suppose, but this type of job isn't for everyone. We've had people come to work, then leave for lunch and never come back. Seeing grief on a daily basis is difficult for some, and it can lead to such terrible depression. I've seen it happen before, and I suspect that's what happened to Cliff. Frankly, I think it's less surprising that he left town without notice than it is that he might have stolen that casket. That isn't something that travels without notice, if you know what I mean."

"Yes," Bo agreed. "I can imagine. So you never recovered the missing casket?"

"No. It was written off at the end of the year as a loss. The only time we've ever lost a casket, and I must say, it raised some eyebrows in corporate! It's still missing to this day."

"Does he have any relatives in Salem? Someone who might know his whereabouts?"

"No, not that I know of. He isn't from this area, though. I believe he transferred in from one of our other branches in another state. I don't know which one."

"What about personnel?" Hope asked. "Would they still have his records on file?"

She gave a slight grimace and a shrug, indicating that she had no idea. "They might be on the computer, but since I'm not in personnel, I can't say for sure. You'll probably need to talk to Corporate about that, and their business offices won't be open until Monday. I can get you the phone number, if you'd like, but I'm sure you will need a court order before they can release the information to you."

"We can do that," Bo said. He withdrew a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "You've been very helpful. If you think of anything else relating to this matter, I'd appreciate it if you would give me a call."

She took the card and glanced at it. "I will, but I don't think there is anything more to tell, Detective. We were really left in the dark with him. We talked about it later, and even though some of the employees thought he had been acting kind of strange, we never had a clue that he would steal a casket and then just disappear."

"How was he acting strange?" Hope asked.

"You know, kind of secretive. There were phone calls that were abruptly terminated if someone came into the room. Oh! And I remember a man came to see him once. Clifford went very pale when he saw him, like he was terrified. He ushered him quickly into a private room. We never found out what that was all about." She paused, thoughtfully. "I wonder if he passed that casket on to that man." She shrugged, and gave a laugh. "But why would he do that? The man looked like he had enough money to buy whatever he needed. It doesn't make sense."

"What did this man look like?"

"He was well dressed, but I'm afraid I don't remember any details about his features. I'm sorry. It's been a long time."

"Did you overhear any of the conversation?"

"No."

"What about other employees who were here at that time? Are any of them still employed here? Someone else we might be able to contact about this matter?"

"No. I'm the longest employee here," she replied. "Twenty six years! Paul Patrick was here at that time, I believe he transferred to our Chicago branch. You might be able to contact him. Other than that, I can't think of anyone else. People come and go, you know. It's hard to remember them all after so much time has passed."

"Thank you for your time, Missus -"

"Clarice. Clarice Crelly."

"Let me know if you think of anything else."

The three stood up and followed Clarice to her desk in the lobby, where she looked up the phone number of the Chicago offices and jotted it down. They thanked her again, and returned to the car.

"Well," Bo said as he started the ignition. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out where that second casket is."

"At St. Luke's Cemetery, buried in Steve's grave," Hope answered. "Someone must have switched the caskets either after the service, or maybe before it was loaded into the hearse. The one Steve was in was probably loaded into a van or a hearse to get Steve out of town, while the empty one was buried."

"And this Clifford Watkins was given an offer he couldn't refuse. Probably given enough money to live comfortably in the Bahamas, or something." He shook his head slowly. "What the hell is in the Wyatt's house or the Matthews' house that is so valuable it justified such an elaborate ruse?"

No one answered, because no one had an answer.

Back at the safe house, Roman had disarmed the security alarm on the kitchen door and opened it to give him and the other agents a clear view of Steve Johnson pushing his daughter on the tire-swing, but while his eyes were attentively watching his brother in law and scanning the dense tree line that surrounded the house, he was thinking about Steve's reaction to Terrell's torture question and the abrupt way he had shut down the conversation.

He had never thought of Steve Johnson as anything other than the stray-cat hoodlum that his tender-hearted sister had, for some inexplicable reason, taken a liking to. Now, he was forced to reassess his initial opinion and view him in an entirely different perspective – that of a man who had been wronged, not only through a kidnapping, but who had survived untold atrocities. A sense of respect had begun to creep into his attitude toward Steve.

"What do you suppose they did to him?" he wondered aloud as Shane joined him with a cup of tea that he had prepared, preferring it over the soft drinks.

Shane shook his head, slowly. "I don't know, but it obviously holds bad enough memories that he doesn't want to talk about it."

"He's going to have to," Terrell said from the table where he was working on the last slice of pizza, which had long since gone cold. "We need to know everything he went through, so we can build a strong case against these guys."

"Are you sure it isn't simply morbid curiosity on your part?" Shane retorted, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.

"I'm not sure we need to know the specifics," Roman agreed. "He's earned the right to a certain amount of privacy."

"I beg to differ," Mitchell said. "The severity of what they did can have an impact on the outcome of this investigation."

"We're not going to try to force it out of him, or he's likely to dig his heels in," Shane warned. "When we pick up the questioning again, we're going to skip over that part and move on to something else."

The two younger agents were shaking their heads in clear disagreement, and Mitchell confirmed it when he said, "I have to voice my objection. We need all the information we can get now, while its still fresh in his mind."

"I don't think it's anything he's likely to forget," Roman said.

"Your objection is noted," Shane said, "but I'm the senior agent here, and we will not pressure this man to reveal the specifics of how he was tortured. You two need to learn patience. I know this man. He will talk about it if and when he's ready, but not one minute before. Pressuring him may shut him down completely, and that's the last thing we want."

Roman detected more in Shane's statement than a concern that Steve would clam up. Shane was literally looking out for him. "Sounds like you and Johnson have become friends," he said, quietly.

Shane nodded. "I guess we have. I've gotten to know him better during the last twenty four hours than during all the years he was in Salem before. He's a very complex person, but I think I'm starting to understand him. I don't know many people who could go through what he has and come through it so well. I have to respect him for that."

"Well, I have to admit, I'm not sure I could have done any better than he has," Roman said. "I wish he'd get back in here, though. This case is too important to risk himself needlessly."

"Well, after all those years of being confined, I think he just needed the reassurance that he wasn't locked in," Shane explained. "We can give him that much."

Roman nodded.

Folding his arms, he leaned on the door jamb and scanned the tree line with alert scrutiny, but he saw only the tree limbs and brush swaying gently in the breeze.


	33. Chapter 33

The meeting was still in recess when Bo, Hope, and Kayla returned to the safe house, and as they entered the kitchen, Kayla's eyes immediately sought out her husband, but his conspicuous absence sent a ripple of concern into her stomach.

"Where's Steve?"

Roman turned to glance at her, observing the worry that was etched into her features. "He needed a break, so he and Stephanie went into the back yard to relax for a while." Looking past her at Bo and Hope, who entered the kitchen behind her, he added, "You made good time. Did you find out any answers?"

"A few," Bo replied. "Unfortunately, we have more questions to add to those we already have."

Roman glanced around the room, first at Shane, who was standing apart from the other two agents, still sipping his tea, then at the agents, who were comparing notes while they indulged in the fudge. "We need to call the meeting back to order so we can discuss these new developments. Kayla, I think he'll be more inclined to listen to you than he would be to listen to me, so would you mind bringing him back inside?"

Kayla had moved past him to look out the door, her gaze settling fondly on her husband as he pushed their daughter on the tire-swing. Stephanie, who had been trying so hard over the last few years to make herself seem more grown-up, had regressed back to childhood in a delightful way, trying to get the tire to swing as high as possible. Unlike a regular swing, which had two ropes or chains to keep its swing-path aligned, the single rope kept the tire twisting so that the girl was facing a different direction each time she swung back.

"Higher, Dad!" she demanded happily as she leaned back and extended her legs in an effort to gain more momentum. "Push me harder!"

Steve was clearly using restraint, presumably concerned about the stability of the rope and its knots, but he complied with her request by pushing her a little harder, sending her a bit higher than before.

"He's having so much fun that I've been reluctant to remind him that we have agents in here waiting to complete our meeting," Roman admitted. "I know this is the first time he's seen his daughter since she was in diapers, but I'd sure appreciate it if you would let him know that we need to talk about your trip to the funeral home."

She nodded. "Okay." Pushing open the screen door, she stepped outside and walked toward her family. Despite the danger they were all in, she felt an overwhelming sense of peace settle over her. Her family was complete once again, and she would do whatever it took to make sure they were never separated again.

With his bad eye toward her and with his attention focused on the swing, Steve did not notice Kayla's approach until she was near enough that he could see the movement out of the left corner of his good right eye. He turned instantly toward her, reacting to her presence with a welcoming smile, momentarily forgetting about the swing he had just pushed.

An instant later, before Kayla could shout a warning, Stephanie and the tire swung back, colliding with him and sending him sprawling ungracefully onto the ground. Kayla rushed toward him, but Stephanie leaped out of the swing and reached him first, kneeling anxiously beside him.

"Dad, are you okay?"

With a broad sweep of his arm, he grabbed her and pulled her down with him, tickling her as he might a five-year-old. She shrieked with laughter and twisted, trying to protect the most ticklish areas from his relentless assault.

Kayla stood back, laughing with them and enjoying their obvious glee. Remembering Stephanie's reluctance to embrace him during their initial meeting, it was obvious that things had changed during the time she had been away from the house. They were both relaxed in their behavior, and it appeared their father-daughter relationship was off to a good start.

When Steve finally released her, Stephanie sat up, grinning happily, her face flushed from the laughter, and brushed the grass and twigs from her hair. "Wow, that was fun."

Kayla moved closer. "Looks like you two had a good time while I was gone. Unfortunately, Roman sent me out with a message. He'd like to call the meeting back to order, so we can reveal the things we found out at the funeral home."

Steve sighed. "You know, just for a little while, I had forgotten all about them." He got up and brushed the grass from his clothes. "Guess we might as well get this over with, so they can leave." He extended his hand to Stephanie, and gently pulled her to her feet.

As a family, they filed back inside through the kitchen door, which Roman closed and locked behind them, then reset the alarm.

Roman caught Steve's eye as he passed. "You ready to get back to it?"

Steve glanced at Shane, who gave a slight nod. "Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

The others began to return to the large table to take their original seats to resume the meeting. Someone had stacked the empty pizza boxes on the cabinet, but there was still soda left in the bottles, so several of them refilled their glasses and helped themselves to the fudge that Kayla and Stephanie had made.

Stephanie flung her arms around Steve's waist. "Thanks for getting me outside for a while. I had a good time."

He kissed the top of her head, moved by the open display of affection from his daughter. "So did I, Baby Girl. And there will be more good times, I promise; you, me, and your mom."

"Sounds great, Dad."

It was getting easier now to call him that, and as she left the kitchen, she glanced back at him over her shoulder. He gave her a wink with his one eye, something she would not have thought possible, but it was clear to anyone who saw it that it was more than just a blink. She smiled, then disappeared through the doorway.

Knowing that her mother would not approve of her listening in on the meeting, she marched noisily back up the stairs, then quietly crept back down about halfway, resuming her place on one of the steps as she had done before.

"Okay," Roman said. "We'll call the meeting back to order."

Steve sighed, bored with what he perceived as unnecessary formality with the meeting ritual. "What's with all these formalities? Can't we talk about it without it sounding like a board meeting or something?"

"Sorry, Steve. This is about as casual as we can get with an interview of this nature," Roman replied. "There are still procedures to follow."

"I know. It just seems kind of silly."

On the staircase, Stephanie smiled. She had to agree.

"Still the same old Steve," Bo said, acknowledging his habit of bucking the system, but everyone heard the fondness in his voice.

"What did you find out at the funeral home?" Roman asked.

"We did get a few answers," Bo replied, then he, Kayla, and Hope explained the details of their trip to the funeral home, including Wilkins' rapid exit from Salem.

"We're going to have to exhume that casket," Roman said when they were finished. "It's probably empty, but it may still hold some pertinent clues that will help resolve this mess. It's a perfect place to hide evidence never intended to see the light of day. There may even be prints preserved inside."

"We figured you would," Bo agreed.

"We also need to obtain any information on this Wilkins guy to see if we can track him down. I'd like to talk to him, find out what he knows about this conspiracy. His testimony could break the case wide open."

"I'll get a court order for his personnel records first thing Monday morning," Bo offered.

"We'll also need to contact that personnel director," Shane added. "His relatives may be able to help us track him down."

"What about the house you were held prisoner in?" Mitchell asked. "Do you have any idea at all where it's located?"

"Yeah, it's near a town called Loughborough."

"Never heard of it," Mitchell said.

"Its north of Leicester," Shane said. "Southeast of Manchester," he added, realizing that no one in the room knew where Leicester was, either.

Terrell nodded. "Mr. Johnson, once we find the area, we'll need you to go with us to verify -"

"No," Steve interrupted, his voice firm, indicating he would accept no argument on that point.

Terrell saw the intense fire in Steve's eye, but chose to ignore that unspoken warning. "Mr. Johnson, we must have your cooperation -"

"Are you deaf? I said _no__!"_ Steve raised his voice, angry now. "I am _never _going back there. I'll help you all I can. I'll give you directions and the description, you can fax pictures of the houses that match, whatever you want, but I will not go back there!"

Steve and Terrell glared at one another for several tense moments before Terrell finally yielded.

Shane cleared his throat, a bit taken aback by the vehemence in Steve's refusal. Clearly, he had been thinking along the same lines as the other two agents; that Steve would be willing to go back to help locate the house. "I think we can probably work with that," he said, cautiously, recognizing the fact that Steve was on the verge of shutting down the interview, again. "We'll need a complete description of the house and grounds, and any landmarks that you might have noticed. Why don't you write down everything you remember, and I'll pick it up tomorrow. That'll give you some time to think about it and get your thoughts straight."

Steve was still glaring at Terrell, who was looking at Shane, at the ceiling, out the window, anyplace except at the angry one-eyed man across the table from him. Turning to Shane, he calmed himself and nodded. "All right. I can do that."

"Good. Gentlemen, I think we should conclude today's meeting and get to work on the information that we have."

"I think that's a good idea," Bo agreed. "We've been at this for a long time, and we're all getting tired."

Terrell sighed, reluctant to adjourn, but conceded the fact that they already had gleaned a lot of information that needed to be processed, and it was clear that Steve Johnson was growing belligerent. "Very well. We may need to call another meeting if additional questions arise."

"That can be arranged," Roman replied.

Everyone stood up at once, their chair legs sliding noisily on the floor. Stephanie took that as her cue to head back to her room, and had barely disappeared form the staircase when they filed into the living room.

Shane paused to shake Steve's hand and offer a few words of encouragement, then went to the front door. "We'll keep everyone updated on our findings," he promised.

The other two agents also stopped to shake his hand, but without comment. Steve remained wary as he shook their hands in a civil manner, but there was no mistaking the defiance as he looked each one directly in the eye. They immediately joined Shane at the front door.

"Talk to you later," Roman said as Shane and the agents filed out the door, then he turned to Steve and Kayla. "I'm going to bug on out of here too and see about getting a court order to exhume that grave. I want to carry that out as soon as possible."

"Okay," Bo replied. "I'll check in with you at the station."

With a wave, Roman stepped out the door and pulled it closed behind him. Bo and Hope lingered, reluctant to go. In a moment of strong emotion, Hope wrapped her arms around Steve for a sisterly embrace.

"I'm so happy you're back," she said. "We've all missed you so much!"

He hugged her back. "It's great to be back," he replied. "I was starting to think this day would never get here."

When he and Hope separated, Bo drew him into his arms for an embrace as well. "It's great to have you back, Steve. I just wish we'd known . . ."

"There's no way you could have known," Steve replied. "These people went to a lot of trouble to make sure I never surfaced again."

"Well, let's get those boxes in here. I'm sure you'd like to get acquainted with your possessions again."

"Yeah, I would," Steve said, eagerly. "I don't suppose I could step outside and help you carry them in."

"If it was up to me, I'd say sure thing, but Roman is adamant that you stay inside, and he outranks me. Hope and I will bring them inside."

"It's only for a little while," Hope said, giving him an affectionate pat on the ribs as she passed. "We're going to catch those guys, and then you and Kayla and Stephanie can pick up your lives and feel safe doing it."

While Steve and Kayla waited in the living room and Stephanie spied through the banister rails from the second story, Bo and Hope walked out to the car. When they returned, they each carried a box, which were both placed on the coffee table.

"Well, I guess we'd better get going," Bo said. "There is a lot of information we need to follow up on, enough to keep us busy for the rest of the day, so you three will have some private time together without interruption. If we need any more information, we'll either phone or - damn!" he said, abruptly.

"What?" Hope asked, surprised by the unexpected outburst.

"With everything that's been going on with Steve, I forgot to tell Shane that Kim and Jeannie are in town. That's twice!"

"I never thought of it either. Roman probably told him. They got together at the station for a while."

"Yeah, you're probably right. Okay, like I was saying, we should be going so we'll see you tomorrow. Kay, don't forget to lock the door after us."

"Okay."

"I hate to leave you with all those dishes," Hope lamented as they walked to the door. "I don't mind staying, if you need some help with the kitchen."

"No, don't worry about it," Kayla said lightly, eager to be alone with her husband. "Stephanie and I will take care of them. You two go on. We'll be fine."

"Okay, if you're sure."

"I'm sure."

Hope pointed an authoritative finger at Steve. "You stay inside."

He gave her an amused smile. "Yes, ma'am."

"Okay. We'll leave you alone for the rest of the day, but we'll probably be back tomorrow."

"Sounds good. See you then."

Kayla closed the door behind them, then reset the alarm. Turning, she saw that Steve had pulled the tape that held the lid in place on the first box, and had folded the flaps back to reveal his clothes, arranged neatly inside.

"Mom packed everything for me," Kayla remembered. "She was so great. I don't think I could have gotten through it without her."

"I've always liked your mama," Steve said, lifting out the first stack of shirts, then added with a grin, "Hey, look at this! This was always my favorite!" He unfolded the black sleeveless shirt and held it up against him, then laid it down again while he quickly removed the shirt he had worn for days during his escape and run across England, then pulled the black one on in its place and smoothed it down. "How do I look?"

Kayla brushed a tear from her cheek, and her lip trembled. "You look like my Steve."

"Oh, baby," he breathed, pulling her into his arms, allowing her to weep softly against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry to keep turning on the waterworks," she apologized. "I never thought I would ever feel this happy again."

"Come on," he said, gently, pulling her toward the sofa, and they sat down together. He heaved a deep sigh and closed his eye, resting his head on the sofa back.

Kayla studied his face; there were a few more lines than there had been before, and his face and body were leaner, perhaps because of the treatment he had received at the hands of his kidnappers. It was a testament of how determined he was to get back home to her and Stephanie, and her love for him swelled. Beyond the physical differences, there was an air of intense weariness in his countenance.

"You look so tired," she said, softly.

"It's been a long day, Sweetness," he replied. He wrapped his arm around her and drew her closer. "Hell, it's been a long decade! I managed to grab a few hours of sleep on the plane last night, but not nearly enough to do much good."

"I think you need a nap while I clean up the kitchen," she suggested.

"Yeah, that sounds good, baby, but right now, I just want to sit here with you."

She laid her head down on his shoulder and closed her eyes, content to be near him. "I wouldn't object to that at all."

They sat quietly for several moments, listening to the clock ticking on the wall, while on the landing, Stephanie yawned and stood up to return to her room out of boredom, but then she heard her father speak:

"So, do you like living in California?"

Stephanie stopped and turned back, kneeling down again to look through the banister rails. She had not given much thought to the fact that they would probably return to Los Angeles, this time with her father, but something in his voice inserted a sudden feeling of doubt, as if he was feeling out their living arrangements.

"Stephanie and I have had some good times there," Kayla replied. "When she was little, I'd take her to the beach, and we'd wade in the waves as they came up on shore, and make sandcastles. She loved that. And as she grew older, I started taking her to other places like the La Brea Tar Pits, Universal Studios, Disneyland, and Magic Mountain." She paused with a quiet laugh. "Although I think I enjoyed some of them more than she did."

He chuckled, softly. "You can take me to those places," he said, then joked, "I promise I'll be a good boy."

"You'd better," she warned. "I don't tolerate any acting out. That'll get you put into time-out!"

"Ooo, a time out. The lady means business."

"You got that right."

There was a definitely affectionate quality to the teasing, and Stephanie tensed, preparing to make her exit if they started smooching. Somehow, that was something she was not ready to witness yet. But they didn't, and she began to relax again.

"Why did you pick California?" he asked. "That seems about as far from fair Salem as you can get."

"That's one of the reasons," Kayla admitted. "Although it wasn't a conscious thought. I just needed to make a clean break, and there is a really good medical school there."

"That's right. Shane told me that you're a doctor now."

"Yes. It was the natural progression from being a Nurse Practitioner. I decided I wanted to devote my life to really helping people." She paused, then added, "I don't think my boss is particularly happy with me right now, though. I took a leave of absence to come here last week, and I called a short time ago to explain what's happening and why I'll be staying a while longer."

"I'm sorry, Sweetness. I'd hate for you to lose your position because of me."

"You're more important to me than any job. Besides, I have an open job offer right here in Salem if I want it. All I have to do is say the word."

Stephanie felt a stab of startled apprehension cut through her at the unexpected announcement.

"I haven't told anyone yet," Kayla continued. "Not even Stephanie, but the Chief of Staff over at University made the offer a couple of days ago. At the time, I couldn't imagine anything that would entice me to move back here. But now . . . " She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him. "Now, I feel like anything is possible."

"How soon do you have to give him an answer?"

She shrugged. "As long as it takes. He knows I have a job and a life in Los Angeles, so he said to take my time to think about it and talk it over with my family. But I have to admit, even before you came back into my life, I think I've been considering the idea. Stephanie barely knows her grandparents, and they're not getting any younger. Maybe that's the real reason why I went out to our house yesterday, to look at it. I didn't expect to find it abandoned."

"You're wanting to move back there?"

"I have to admit, the idea is very appealing. My main concern is Stephanie. She's never lived anywhere except the L.A. area, and I think she's considering UCLA after she graduates from high school."

"College is still a long way off," Steve pointed out. "She may change her mind a dozen times before then. Think she'd be upset if you pulled up roots to move back here?"

"I don't know. She has friends there that I'm sure she won't want to leave. But life is so much faster there, sometimes too fast. Sometimes dangerous. I just wish she could get to know Salem, what a wonderful place this is to live."

"Well, like you said, we don't need to make a decision right away. We need to take it a day at a time for now. I want us all to be on the same page before we make any decisions."

"I agree."

Rising to her feet, Stephanie leaned back against the wall and thought about what she had just heard. When they had come to Salem for a visit, she had never even considered the idea that they might leave home to move there.


	34. Chapter 34

A/N: I have absolutely no remembrance of where Adrienne and Justin were at this point in the show, but for the purpose of my story, I'm taking creative license. Sorry for the length of time after the last chapter. Holidays were hectic.

It was shortly after noon when Adrienne Johnson Kiriakis closed and locked the front door of the house she shared with her husband Justin. With her keys in one hand and her purse in the other, she skipped lightly off the porch and got into the driver's seat of the SUV that was parked on the horseshoe driveway. As she turned the ignition, listening as the well-tuned engine roared to life, her eyes noticed the time on the dash. She was running late for her lunch with her mother, Jo. Each week, they made a point of getting together for a mother-daughter lunch. Aside from that, Jo was a frequent guest at the Kiriakis home, where she delighted in helping out with her grandsons.

Shifting into "drive", she eased the vehicle around the curving driveway and out onto the street, turning in the direction that would take her to her mother's nearby condominium.

She barely noticed the car that was parked on the curb near the house, but her neighbor's visitors often parked on the street, so she paid it no attention as she passed. And therefore she failed to notice when the car pulled away from the curb and fell in line behind her.

It was a short drive to the condo, and when she reached her destination, Adrienne turned on her blinker and pulled into the covered, multi-level garage, driving slowly past the assigned parking spaces until she reached the guest parking, and turned into an empty space. A van that had followed her in pulled into a space across the aisle.

She turned off the ignition and got out of the car, but when she leaned back inside to get her purse off the seat, she felt a sharp, startling jab in her hip, and knew instantly that she had been stuck by something very sharp.

"Hey!" she protested resentfully, whirling to face the person she initially assumed was a resident who had been careless with a sharp object while moving past her.

A stranger stood there, but the expected apology did not come, and she realized instantly that the incident had not been an accident. The perpetrator was a casually dressed man in his thirties with nothing about his appearance that would have marked him as threatening, except for the syringe he held in his hand. He did not respond to her objection. Instead, he took a step back and glanced around, obviously making certain that no one was around to witness the crime.

She experienced a mixture of anger and apprehension. "What the hell did you inject me with?" she demanded, taking a step toward the man. There was already a strange buzzing in her ears, and she shook her head in an attempt to clear it. The car keys slipped from her fingers and jingled on the concrete floor.

His eyes settled on her in response to her outburst, but again, he did not respond. She knew he was waiting. Waiting for whatever he had injected her with to start working. Most likely, she realized, it was something that would eventually render her unconscious. Fear began to replace her anger.

"Who the hell are you, and what is it you want?" Adrienne asked, holding on to the open door to steady herself. "What was in that syringe."

"Just something to make you cooperative," the man said, patiently.

"Cooperative?" she echoed. "Cooperative about what?"

The man merely looked at her, waiting.

"What is this, a kidnapping?" she asked.

The man did not answer, but his eyes moved ominously around the parking area.

While his attention was briefly directed away from her, she made an impulsive attempt to get back inside the SUV, but, he reacted instantly, grasping her by the arm to stop her. By the slightly rubbery feel of his fingers, she knew he was wearing latex gloves.

Already, she was starting to feel a bit woozy, but she still had enough of her faculties to wrench her arm free of his grasp. "Let go of me!" she insisted. The gesture knocked the syringe from his hand, and it rolled out of sight beneath the SUV. He cursed, his eyes following it until it was out of sight, but he did not go after it. She was his target, and he would not be distracted, even for a moment, until the effects of the drug kicked in. After failing to apprehend Kayla Johnson, he knew that Vaughn would accept no excuses.

The SUV door was open, and she groped at the driver's seat in an attempt to gain access, but the garage was beginning to spin madly, like a nauseating ride at the amusement park.

He recognized the signs that the drug was working, ad he was calm when he grasped her arm again. With a sensation of overwhelming vulnerability, she realized that he was attempting to steady her, to break the fall that was coming.

"Don't fight it, Mrs. Kiriakis," he advised in a surprisingly kind voice. "It's going to happen regardless, so you may as well accept it. We're not going to hurt you as long as you do as your told. You'll be released unharmed, I promise."

"What do you want with me?" she asked. Her tongue felt thick, and her words were slurred. She knew she was on the verge of losing consciousness.

He placed his arm around her waist and held her firmly, glancing worriedly around the garage. Voices echoing down from an upper level indicated they were not alone in the garage. Moments later, a car door slammed. "Come on, let's go. My van is just over there."

"I'm not coming with you," she told him, trying to make her voice sound firm, but she knew the words were barely legible. She pushed at him ineffectively with her fist. "Damn it! What did you inject me with?"

"Nothing to worry about," he assured her in an infuriatingly conversational tone. "You're going to be okay. There will be no lingering effects."

"Look, if its money you want, my husband . . . . My husband will . . ."

She got no farther. Sinking into total unconsciousness, her weight sagged against him, and he half carried, half dragged her to the van. The car on the next level had started, and in a couple of minutes it would be driving past.

He cast a lingering glance at the SUV. There was no time to retrieve the syringe. He had been careful to leave no prints in it, so he climbed into the van with the unconscious woman and backed out of the parking space. His employer would not like the fact that he had left evidence behind, but if he was lucky, Vaughn would not find out about it until payment had been delivered and he was long gone.

* * *

Jo Johnson paced nervously in the living room of her condo, pausing every few minutes to glance at the clock on the digital cable TV box. Turning, she started the other direction and was confronted by the clock on the microwave oven, reaffirming her fears, and she stopped to stare at the illuminated numbers.

An uneasy sensation spread through her, filling her with anxiety. Adrienne was very late for their weekly lunch, and it was unlike her not to call to let her mother know if something had come up.

Her eyes shifted to the telephone on the lamp table. She had telephoned her daughter several times, but there had been no answer, a troubling outcome, for Adrienne was never without her cell phone. She always said she wanted to be in touch with her sons, and was obsessive about keeping it charged and available in chase she was needed.

As she stared at it, the telephone rang, startling her out of her reverie. Hope sprang eagerly. Maybe that was her!

She scooped it up without looking at the caller I.D. "Adrienne?"

"Jo?" Justin asked, his voice clearly puzzled that his mother in law had answered the phone with an inquiry that suggested she was hoping the caller would be her daughter.

"Justin!" she responded, clearly disappointed. "I was hoping you were Adrienne."

"She isn't with you?" he asked. "I've been trying to reach her on her cell phone, but she isn't answering."

"I know, I've been trying to call her too. She was supposed to have picked me up for lunch more than an hour ago, and she hasn't showed up. She always calls if she's going to be late. Something's wrong, Justin. I know something's wrong."

He methodically drummed the eraser end of his pencil on his desk pad, trying to imagine scenarios where his wife would be unable to answer her phone, but nothing came to mind that was not alarming. "Did she say if she had anyplace else to go before picking you up? Maybe she was delayed."

"No, she was at the house when I spoke to her earlier. She was going to come straight here."

"All right. I'll see if I can track her down."

Justin disconnected the call with Jo on the company phone and sat for several moments at his desk, cluttered with case files, gazing at the handset, very troubled by his mother's in law's phone call. It was Saturday, and he had come in to his law office catch up on some paperwork, as he sometimes did due to the quiet and lack of activity that was often distracting during work days. But the possibility that something might have happened to his wife was a distraction that would not be ignored. Adrienne was always prompt, precise, and reliable, and it was unlikely that she had simply taken a detour or made an unexpected stop without letting someone know.

As he returned the company phone on the hook, his cell phone began to play the musical ring tone he had selected to identify the incoming call as his wife.

An immediate sense of relief replaced the concern. Most likely, she had merely been delayed somewhere, perhaps due to a flat tire or some other mundane occurrence with the car. And it was a fact that she occasionally forgot to recharge her cell phone. A simple matter that happened to most everyone at one time or another.

Picking up the cell phone from his desk, he lifted it to his ear. "Adrienne? Where are you?"

His query was followed by several moments of ominous silence, during which that uneasy sense of apprehension returned.

"Adrienne?" he asked again.

"Am I speaking to Mr. Kiri - Kiri . . . akis?" a male voice asked, stumbling hesitantly over the unusual name.

This time, the pause was initiated by Justin, startled by the unexpected voice of a strange man on his wife's cell phone. "It is," he replied when he had found his voice again. "Who is this and what the hell are you doing with my wife's phone?"

"This is Detective Carl Wade, of the Dallas Police Department."

Justin felt a sudden chill of trepidation, as if a full bucket of ice water had been thrown over him, drenching him with numbed disbelief. Jo was right! Something was wrong.

"What happened?" he asked in a voice so overcome with dread that he did not sound like himself. "Is Adrienne all right?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out, Mr. Kiri -"

"Kiriakis," Justin told him impatiently.

"Mr. Kiriakis," the officer finished. "We were summoned to the Skyline Plaza Condominiums by one of the residents who reported finding an SUV parked in a guest space with the driver's side door wide open and a woman's purse in full view on the passenger seat. Your number was programmed into the cell phone that we found inside the purse."

"And my wife?"

"We're trying to determine -"

"Are you still at the parking garage?" Justin asked, cutting him off. He heard the careful manner in which the officer was speaking, and understood that they were going to evade his questions. To get the answers, he would have to seize control.

"Yes, but -"

"Stay there. I'm on my way."

"Mr. Kiriakis, we would prefer that you -"

Justin disconnected the call, refusing to allow a debate on the subject. Tucking the phone into the holster that was attached to his belt, he scooped up his car keys and strode into the receiving office and out the front door, locking it securely behind him.

Justin's heart felt heavy with worry and anxiety as he crossed the parking lot at a jog to his vehicle and slid into the driver's seat behind the wheel. He wasted no time getting the car into the flow of traffic, and accelerated as rapidly as he dared toward the Condo.

As he drove, the image of Adrienne's face kept coming into his mind. Like every married couple, they had their share of matrimonial ups and down. There had even been one divorce early on that could have split them up permanently, but they had weathered the storm and had emerged from it more mature and on a more solid foundation of love and respect for each other than ever before. In short, he simply could not imagine his life without her.

He somehow managed to avoid a speeding ticket, even though he broke every speed limit on the way to the Condo he had insisted on purchasing for Jo's birthday years earlier, so that she could live near their home. Of course, she had protested that it was too much. Jo Johnson carried no sense of entitlement to anything, unlike so many people in this day and age, proudly preferring to work and earn her own way. Some gentle persuasion from Adrienne had finally convinced her to accept. She was now enjoying retirement.

Justin grimaced as the image of his mother in law flashed into his mind. After losing her older son, Steve, it would devastate her if anything happened to her daughter as well.

When he reached the parking lot, he turned on his blinkers to announce his intention to the person behind him, then accelerated into a tire-squealing fast left turn between two oncoming cars, ignoring the annoyed blast of the horn from the second car, which had been forced to brake to avoid a collision.

Locating Adrienne's vehicle in the vast parking garage was not difficult. As soon as he was inside the dimly lit garage, he could see the flashes of red lights from the multiple police cars that were working the scene. The ominous flashes bounced eerily off the concrete walls and reflected off the steel girders.

Grimly, Justin followed the source of the flashing lights around the corner to the left and found the through-lane blocked by three police cars.

His heart hammered loudly in his chest as he parked his truck behind them and turned off the ignition. As he stepped out of the truck, he was noticed by one of the police officers, who approached him with a stern expression.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't park here."

"Watch me," Justin challenged, in no mood for a battle of wills.

"This is a possible crime scene. You need to turn around and –"

"I'm Justin Kiriakis," Justin said, raising his voice above that of the officer. "That is my wife's SUV over there, and right now I want to know where she is."

The officer looked at him appraisingly for a moment, taking note of the defiance in his eyes and the determination of his posture. "Sir, I understand that you're upset, but I cannot allow you past the barricade."

Justin's eyes fixed on the other officers who were gathered around Adrienne's SUV, noticing that hey seemed to be looking at something on the ground. His blood went frigid again and pounded relentlessly in his temples. "Oh, God," he groaned. "Is she dead?"

"Sir, I really can't –"

"Get out of my way!" Justin snapped, trying to shoulder his way past the officer.

"Sir –" the officer protested, grasping him by the arm.

Justin whirled around to face him again. "Listen to me, Officer –" His eyes dropped to the nameplate that was pinned to his uniform. "Officer Galindo. I will go over you, under you, around you, or through you, but one way or another I am going back there!"

A second officer, whose attention had been distracted by the confrontation, called, "It's all right, Raul. He's the husband and I need to speak with him anyway. Let him through."

Justin ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and approached the SUV. It was still sitting exactly as she had left it with the driver's side door open and her purse on the passenger seat. Seeing it, knowing that something terrible must have happened, he felt as though he had been punched in the stomach.

"Are you Detective Wade?" he asked the officer who had permitted him to enter. "You're the one who called me?"

"Yes. You're Kiriakis?"

Steeling himself to what he might see, Justin walked around the rear of the SUV to the driver's side, and his eyes dropped expectantly to the pavement beside it, but there was no sign of Adrienne. Lifting his eyes again to the detective's face, he asked, "Where is my wife?"

"At this point, we don't know the answer to that."

"Then she's not . . . " He stopped, unable to say the word.

The detective was watching him carefully, and although he gave no indication of his thoughts and opinions, he decided at that moment that the husband's distress over his wife's disappearance was legitimate, and silently scratched him off his mental list of suspects. "We're treating this as a probable abduction," Wade told him. "Clearly this was not a robbery, since her purse, money, and credit cards are still present. There is no sign of violence, but we did find this on the ground under the driver's side of the car." He held up a plastic evidence bag.

Justin leaned closer to examine the syringe that was visible inside it. That must have been what they were looking at as he had arrived. His eyes moved past the evidence bag and focused on Wade. "A hypodermic?"

"We'll send it to the lab for prints and to have the residual contents analyzed to find out exactly what was in it, but it seems fairly obvious that it was some sort of tranquilizer injected to neutralize any attempts on her part to escape."

Justin nodded. That seemed logical. And if they had injected her, then it seemed safe to assume that, at that moment at least, she was still alive. His eyes wandered over the other officers who were dusting the SUV for fingerprints and scouring the ground for evidence."

"We'll need your fingerprints as well, Mr. Kiriakis," Officer Wade said.

Justin's eyes snapped back to the officer's face, angered by the implication. "Mine? Surely you don't think that I –"

"I didn't say that, sir. It is standard procedure to obtain the prints of anyone who might have used this vehicle so we can separate them from any prints left by persons unknown, who will become persons of interest in this case."

Justin heaved a heavy sigh and dragged his fingers through his hair, feeling suddenly exhausted, drained of energy, and deeply discouraged. "Of course, I know that. You'll need my son's prints as well. Alexander borrowed his mom's car this morning while the tires were being rotated on his own car. And I think she took our youngest son, Jackson, to the dentist yesterday, so his prints will probably be in there as well. I'll go get them and bring them to the station with me."

"We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Kiriakis, and I promise we'll do everything we can to get your wife home safely. Do you have any idea why someone would want to kidnap her?" Wade asked.

"Yeah, I'm afraid I do," Justin said, bitterly. "I come from a rather wealthy family and I own a profitable law office here in Dallas.. The Kiriakises are well known in Greece, and my uncle Victor heads up the American branch of the family. He owns a number of profitable businesses and some property up north. It would be a simple matter for someone to find out that my family has money."

The officer nodded in agreement. "You're thinking extortion. A ransom in exchange for Mrs. Kiriakis."

Justin shrugged. "Makes as much sense as anything else. They wouldn't dare attempt something like this with my uncle. He has a lot of employees, bodyguards, people who will do anything he asks, but me . . . I don't have his resources. Never thought I would need them."

"All right, we'll cover that angle of the case, and we may need to install surveillance equipment on your home phone in case the kidnappers try to contact you."

"Anything you want. We'll cooperate fully. I just want my wife back safe and sound."

"Is there anything else you can think of that might help us find this person? Have you fired anyone recently, for example, someone who might want to get even?"

Justin shook his head. "I can't think of anything else at the moment."

"What was your wife doing here? Is this where you two reside?"

"No. Her mother lives in a condo here. They were going to have lunch together." He sighed, dreading what he knew he must do. "And I'll need to tell her what happened. She lost her oldest son to a murder some years back. Facing the prospect of her daughter being kidnapped will be hard for her, but I think it'll be easier if it comes from me."

"Yes, sir. I think it probably will." He did not ad that notifying family members of things like this was the hardest part of his job.

"Do you need me for anything else?"

"No, not at the moment. Be sure to leave your address and all phone numbers when you come in to be fingerprinted. That way we can reach you if we need anything else. Oh, if your wife's mother has been in the car recently, we'll need her prints as well."

"I'll tell her."

"After that, just go home and sit by the phone."

With a heavy heart, Justin returned to his truck and moved it to a valid parking space and entered the building. He was not surprised to find curious bystanders gawking toward the garage and talking excitedly.

"Any idea what's going on?" one of them asked as he walked past.

"I'm sure it will be on the news," he replied, shortly, then boarded the elevator to Jo's floor.

When the elevator arrived on Jo's fifth floor condo, he stepped into the corridor and made his way to her doorway. Decorative pictures of cowboys and oil derricks, Dallas's historical past, lined the corridor walls, and the plush carpet muffled his footsteps as he approached her door.

Pausing at Unit 503, he paused briefly to collect his thoughts and plan how he was going to inform her that her daughter had most likely been kidnapped, then, when no plan came to mind, he lifted his hand and knocked on the door. "Jo? It's me, Justin," he called.

"Justin?" The door opened almost immediately, and Jo Johnson, dressed in a lovely blue pantsuit that looked stunning against her blonde hair, looked anxiously into his face. "Did you find her?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

Her posture seemed to slump with worry, but she stepped back to allow him inside her home. "Come in," she beckoned. "Where could she be?" she wondered aloud. "This isn't like her!"

He stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him, then turned to face her, a view that provided a lovely view of the Dallas skyline through the floor to ceiling glass wall behind her. A balcony, decorated with a small bistro table and chairs, potted plants, and a comfortable lounge where she liked to read was also visible. "Jo, the police are down in the parking garage. Adrienne apparently made it this far, but then disappeared."

Jo's eyes were large with alarm. "What do you mean 'disappeared'?"

"Her SUV was found in the parking garage, the door open and her purse still on the seat. The police were called, and they found a used hypodermic needle on the ground under her car. They think she was kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" she repeated in a whisper.

"Yeah. Most likely, it was someone thinking to extort money from us. They must have either followed her here or were lying in wait for her, but it's certain that they took her by surprise and used whatever was in the needle to disable her enough to keep her from fighting. Now, the good news is that it seems to suggest that she is still alive and that they will contact me with a ransom demand."

Jo looked terrified. "Justin, what if they –"

He took her shoulders firmly in each hand and looked sternly into her face. "No, we're not going to think like that. I'll pay them anything they want, but the stipulation will be that she is returned unharmed. We'll pray that will give them enough incentive to assure her safety. In the meantime, I need to get Alexander and Jack and get them to the police station. The cops want to fingerprint anyone who has used the car recently to eliminate our prints from others that might belong to the kidnapper. I just wanted to stop by to let you know in person what's going on."

"Thank you for that," she said, her voice trembling.

"If you were in her car recently, they'll need your prints as well."

"No, we took my car last week."

"Okay." He leaned over to kiss her cheek. "Try to think positive. We're going to do everything possible to get her back."

She nodded, but he knew from her expression that she was unconvinced. She was thinking about her other loss, the death of her first child. "Justin, I don't think I could stand it if –"

"I know," he interrupted. "I'm going to do everything I can to keep her safe."

"I know you will. Keep me informed. Please."

"I will."

He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze, then left.


	35. Chapter 35

After dropping Terrell and Mitchell off at the local I.S.A. offices, Shane drove directly to the locally renowned Salem Inn to secure a suite for the duration of his stay, but since it was impossible to determine an exact length of time required to close the investigation, he made an open-ended reservation for a one bedroom suite with internet access and laundry service, both of which were easily accommodated.

With only one garment bag and his laptop case to manage, he declined the offer of a bellboy, and with one bag in each hand, he boarded the elevator alone and rode it to his assigned floor, where he walked wearily down the long corridor, following the ascending numbers on the suite doors until he reached the one that that been assigned to him. Tucking the computer case under his left arm to free up his right hand, he inserted the key card into the slot and listened as the mechanism unlocked the door. Stepping inside, he paused to view the space in which he would be living for the unforeseeable future.

With a job that had, over the years, required a great deal of travel, he had grown accustomed to hotels and living out of a suitcase, but as he aged, the experience was growing tedious. The suite at Salem Inn was tastefully decorated and more than adequate for his temporary needs, but it there was little difference between it and the many other hotels in which he had roomed.

The small entry area in which he stood opened up to a spacious living room with a plush corner sofa set and plenty of comfortable chairs. A big screen television was mounted on the wall facing the sofa set. The far wall accommodated a sliding glass door opposite the entryway with a plush full length drape, and the balcony outside offered a lovely view of downtown Salem and the gently rolling Midwestern hills beyond. On his right was a small kitchenette complete with a microwave oven and a small refrigerator. A decorative French door on his left led to the bedroom and lavatory.

Last, a desk was tucked unassumingly into a small alcove beside the kitchenette, and he allowed his eyes to linger there, examining the workspace. Complete with a bright florescent light and an Ethernet cable, it would provide an excellent working area that he knew would see a great deal of use during his stay. The assignment intrigued him, and he was reluctant to relinquish command and control to the less experienced and personally detached Captain Mitchell. Shane knew the subject and was personally involved, so he would be conducting his own investigations apart from theirs.

Entering the bedroom through the lovely French doors, he deposited his garment bag on the queen sized bed with its plushy comforter in dark forest colors, then opened the closet, which he had been told by the front desk contained a built-in safe. It was there, nestled in the rear corner, its door open and ready to receive the objects he needed to secure. Kneeling down, he programmed his own access code into it, and locked the laptop and the USB drive securely inside it.

Next, he unpacked the small wardrobe that Hargrove had hastily put together for him; two pairs of jeans and a pair of slacks, and three shirts that could be worn with either, plus socks and underwear, his shaving kit and other toiletries. As he hung the clothing in the closet, observing the large empty space, he wondered if it might be beneficial to visit a local clothing store to pick up a few items. He had left England in such haste that there had not been time to properly pack a suitable wardrobe. He would see to that tomorrow.

After the toiletries were deposited in the lavatory, Shane leaned his hands on the countertop for several moments, observing his reflection in the large mirror over the double sink. He was tired, and that fact was reflected in the weary eyes and the five o'clock shadow that was starting to appear on his face, reminding him that he had not shaved since before his trip to London the day before. He dragged his hand along his jaw, feeling the bristly stubble, but rejected the notion of shaving. It was late and there was no one to impress, so there was little point in worrying about it at that moment. He would wait until morning and start fresh after a good night's sleep.

With a sigh, experiencing a sudden, profound sensation of aloneness and weariness, he returned to the bedroom, contemplating the idea of lying down for a while before he went to supper, then rejected that idea as well. He was too tired to begin work on the case, but he felt too restless to take a nap. He needed to unwind from the effects of the meeting and the long flight.

His eyes strayed to the digital clock on the bedside table. The illuminated numbers indicated that the time was shortly after four o'clock, and he was faced with several empty hours before supper. Feeling unusually fidgety and with no desire to sit down and watch television, he grabbed the car keys again, returned to the main entrance, and requested his car.

For a while, he merely drove aimlessly around Salem's streets, passing many of the businesses and eateries he had frequented during his life there, but he did not stop at any of them. This was merely a drive to reacquaint himself with the layout of the city, or at least that is what he told himself. In actuality, he was chasing memories, some good, some painfully bad, but there was no denying he still regarded Salem with fondness.

As he drove the streets of town, though, he never forgot that danger lurked, and he cast frequent glances in the rear view mirror, assuring himself that he was not being followed. He was not particularly surprised to find that no vehicle remained behind him for any suspicious length of time. Whoever had been following Kayla must have realized that she was out of reach and had been pulled from the detail. Steve's kidnappers would likely be huddled somewhere, discussing their bad luck and making alternate plans.

When his tour of Salem neared the local park, Shane turned the wheel on impulse and pulled into the parking area, easing the rental car into one of the empty parking spaces. In the shadow of University Hospital, the park was a popular place for the staff to break for lunch, utilizing the many picnic tables and park benches while children enjoyed the playground equipment and the sandboxes.

The park had long been considered one of the town's major hubs, a place where nearly every resident had spent time, and as he gazed at the mature green trees, the soft grassy turf, and the familiar park benches, he was inundated by a strong sense of nostalgia. In that park, in happier times, he had met Kim on warm summer days to share a bagged lunch from a local hamburger hut, or in winter had strolled the glittering snowy paths while sharing warm chestnuts, and they had taken walks while pushing baby Andrew in his pram.

His wistful sigh was loud in the silence of the car, wondering how they could have allowed their relationship to go so wrong. Unfortunately, those happier days were gone forever and could not be recaptured.

With his mood subdued by the ambush of memories, he almost drove away in an attempt to escape them, but he knew it would do no good. They were firmly imbedded in his mind, and would not be so easily evaded.

Typically bustling with activity on summer days and weekends, only a few people were visible from the parking area, but a glance at the illuminated clock on the dash revealed the time was nearing the dinner hour. Activity would probably pick up again later in the evening. In the meantime, it seemed a pleasant time to enjoy a few quiet minutes in the park to unwind and to clear his mind before retiring to his room at the Inn.

Shane opened the car door and stepped out onto the asphalt. As he closed the door and observed the park, deciding which direction to go, a young woman wearing a pair of shorts and a sleeveless blouse jogged past with a Dalmatian trotting happily alongside, its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth. It glanced at him as they passed the car, and he saw a slight tail wag when they made eye contact, but it never broke stride.

Dressed in jeans and a long sleeved shirt, he was not properly attired for a jog, but it had been a long time since he had taken a walk just for pleasure, so he rolled up his sleeves and strolled casually behind the woman and her dog. The early evening temperatures were warm but not unpleasant, and for a while he enjoyed the cooling breeze and the sounds of birds and the sight of squirrels routing in the grass for acorns.

The distance between him and the bouncing ponytail increased until she finally vanished around a curve in the path behind a clump of bushes, the dog still trotting faithfully at heel.

He was approaching a park bench on his right, shaded by tall maple trees, which faced away from the path, and he noticed that the bench was occupied by a woman with long hair. Her back was to him, thumbing through a large periodical, perhaps a newspaper, but there was something about her posture and movements, even her style o clothing, that brought him to a complete stop.

A pensive frown drew his brows together, studying her carefully, focusing on those things that reminded him of one very specific person.

His first reaction was to deny the possibility. No, it could not be her. The coincidence would simply be too remarkable. His second reaction was to acknowledge the painful longing that possibility brought.

She turned another page, and her face turned slightly toward the new page, allowing him a glimpse of her profile, and as the uncertainly melted away, he felt his heart constrict with regret.

Faced with a decision, he shifted his gaze toward the path he had been following. Should he simply continue on his way; pretend he hadn't seen her? Or should he stop to exchange pleasantries? Would she be happy to see him, or would she tell him to get lost? The decision was simple. She was the mother of his children. At the very least, he wanted to inquire after them.

Leaving the path, he moved onto the grassy turf and stopped several paces behind her. His hand moved to his face, feeling the bristly stubble, acutely aware of the fact that he had left the Inn without shaving, and then silently chided himself for worrying about something that didn't matter. She was a married woman. His appearance was irrelevant.

After several false starts, wondering how she would react, he managed to speak her name. "Kim?"

Responding to her name and the familiar voice, she turned to face him. He realized at that moment that he needn't have worried that she would not be happy to see him. Her smile was as warm as the sunshine, and he felt his heart leap eagerly beneath his ribs, as if joyful to see her.

"Shane," she said in the smooth mellow voice that he had always loved, and his heart lurched again in reaction to hearing it.

He dragged his fingers through his thick salt and pepper hair, struggling to open the conversation. His eyes dropped to the newspaper she had lowered to her lap, recognizing it as a popular supermarket tabloid. "Taken to reading scandal sheets?"

She laughed, a slightly embarrassed musical laugh that filled him with pleasure. "No, not usually. I found this on the bench when I sat down, so I picked it up and started glancing through it." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. "Did you know there are alien babies being raised by humans, right here in the United States?"

He chuckled at her sense of humor. "No, I wasn't aware of that."

Still smiling at their shared joke, she changed the subject, "I didn't know you were in Salem."

"Well, I . . . I didn't really expect to be here," he replied, wondering why his voice sounded so strange. He paused to clear his throat, pretending that his discomfort was physical rather than emotional. "Something came up, and it was necessary to come back." There, that sounded more like himself.

If she noticed the odd sound to his voice, she gave no indication. "Does it have anything to do with why Bo came to the pub earlier to get Kayla and Stephanie? He made it all sound so mysterious, but he refused to even give a hint as to what it was all about."

At the mention of Kayla's name, he glanced quickly around the area to verify that they were alone, a gesture of familiar vigilance that she did not fail to notice.

The smile she had been wearing melted into a frown of concern for her sister. "What's going on? Bo had Mom and Dad pretty upset and worried that Kay might have gotten herself into some trouble, or something."

"No, no, nothing like that," he assured her. Closing the gap between them, he placed his hands on the back of the bench, collecting his thoughts and deciding how much he should reveal. "Something has happened, and because it concerns Steve, Kayla deserved to hear about it first."

"Steve?" Kim asked.

He glanced cautiously around the park again, assuring himself that no one had approached them, then turned to face her. "Yes. This is going to come as a tremendous surprise, but it turns out that he's alive."

Her expression was skeptical. "Is this for real?"

"Yes. If you'll take a walk with me, I'll tell you about it, but I would appreciate it if you would keep it quiet for now."

"All right," she said.

Tossing the tabloid in the wire refuse basket, she joined him as he stepped onto the path again.

"Steve is really alive?" she asked.

"Yes. He quite literally crossed my path last night as I was returning from London." Briefly, he described his unexpected encounter with Steve on the road and the story he had told, giving her an abbreviated version of Steve's kidnapping and escape, plus some of the information they had learned during the meeting, knowing that she would understand its classified nature.

She listened attentively, then asked, "Where has he been all this time? And how? I mean, I thought we had buried him!"

"We buried a coffin, but apparently he wasn't in it."

Kim fell silent for several moments, remembering her sister's grief over losing the love of her life. The frown on her brow indicated that she was very disturbed by what she had just heard. "This all sounds so outlandish!. And you have no idea who is behind all this?" she asked when he had completed the narrative.

"Well, all roads seem to lead back to Alamain, although the only evidence we have is circumstantial at this point. The man who purchased the house may or may not be Alamain, but right now, it sure looks like it."

"What could he be looking for?" she asked, mystified.

"No idea, but given their determination to get it and the length of time that Steve was held captive, it must be something very, very significant."

"What about Kayla? If these people are after Steve, doesn't that place her in danger as well?"

"She was definitely in danger," he admitted, "but one of the first things Steve asked was if I would put a guard on her, so I assigned an agent to follow her and to report directly to me if he saw anyone hanging around her. The agent reported that someone was indeed watching her, and once that person realized he had been spotted, he took off and hasn't been seen since. Bo took Kayla to the safe house, where Steve is. She'll be fine there, but I must confess that I am concerned about the rest of the family. These people are desperate, and we don't know what they will do to get Steve back. Keep your eyes open, and if you see any strangers hanging around the pub, give me or Bo or Roman a call."

"I will." Kim was quiet for several moments, thinking about that. "Kayla never really got over losing Steve. This is the first time she's been back to Salem since she moved away. She just wasn't comfortable being here, with all the memories of her life with him, and yet ever since she arrived, she's been driving around, visiting all the places that were important to him."

He nodded, understanding her desire to visit the places that Steve had enjoyed. Hadn't he just been doing the same thing regarding his own past? "As a matter of curiosity, why did she come back now?"

"Mom and Pop have been after both of us to come back home for a family gathering. I finally decided to take them up on it, but we didn't think Kayla would be here. Then, right out of the blue, she called to say that she was coming."

"Seems odd, doesn't it?" he asked. "That she would decide, right out of the blue, to come back now, when Steve was on his way back to her."

"Yes, it does. Whatever the reason, I'm glad he's okay, and that the two of them will get a second chance together. It's always a good thing for families to be together."

He fell silent, and when she glanced over at him, he was looking at her strangely, and she suddenly felt self-conscious about her last statement.

After a few minutes, he asked, "So, how long have you been here?"

"Oh, about a week. Like Kayla, I thought it was time for a visit."

"So, you didn't just arrive, then. Bo and Roman obviously knew you were here, didn't they?"

She looked surprised. "Yes, of course." Realization dawned. "They didn't tell you, did they?"

"No, they didn't. Did the kids come with you?" he asked, hopefully.

"Jeannie did, but Andrew had already made plans to go camping in the Cascades with the family of his best friend, and I didn't have the heart to make him come with us. If I'd known you were going to be here . . ." she added, then let the thought trail away.

Shane nodded, understanding. "I didn't know myself until the last minute. I'm sure he's having a good time. I'd love to see Jeannie, if she can spare a few minutes for the old man."

"Sure. She'll like that. They both miss you."

"It's hard to believe they're growing up so fast."

"I know. Andrew is 16 and in high school. It's a very nice private school in Seattle, you know."

"Yes, I pay the tuition."

"I know. I wish you'd let me help you with that."

"No, I'm glad to do it. And I want him to have a college education, too, but I do hope he'll pick Oxford. He probably won't want to make the drive every day, but he can have spent his weekends with me at the estate."

Kim gave an uncomfortable shrug. "Well, I'm sure he would like that, but I don't know if he'll want to leave his friends. You know how kids are."

"Yeah, I know. I just don't get to spend much time with either of them."

More silence settled over them.

He could imagine what she was thinking: that if he had not divorced her and moved back to England, he would have been more involved in the lives of both his children. He was paying the price for distancing himself from them.

But as he studied her face, calm, even serene, he decided she probably was not thinking anything so harsh. She seemed genuinely happy to see him, and he knew he was happy to see her. He wondered . . . .

"Kim," he began, paused briefly, then when she gazed at him quizzically, waiting for him to continue, he cleared his throat nervously, glanced idly around the park, then said, "I was wondering. With you and Jeannie both here in Salem, maybe the three of us could go out to supper tonight. As a family. I mean, I'll understand if you don't want to, but I thought maybe Jeannie would enjoy it, and I'd really like to see her."

Kim smiled, pleased that he wanted to spend time with his daughter. "I'm sure she would enjoy that. Yeah, it's fine with me. What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know, really. It's been a long time since I've been back here, and I don't know where all the good places are."

"Pretty much the same places as before, with a few new ones. I think Jeannie would be happy pretty much anywhere except the more formal places."

"Well, I didn't bring any formal clothes, anyway. Steve and I sort of flew out of England in a hurry, and there wasn't time to make any wardrobe selections. Why don't you two talk it over and pick out something, and I'll pick you two up at six? You are staying at the pub, right?"

"Do you think Mom would allow me to stay anywhere else?"

"I suppose not," he agreed, affectionately.

"Okay, sounds good."

"I'll walk with you back to your car, if that's okay," he suggested.

"Sure."

Together, Kim and Shane strolled along the path toward the parking lot, and they began to feel more at ease with each other. Talking together was more comfortable, and the years seemed to melt away as they reminisced about things they had enjoyed during their marriage.


	36. Chapter 36

Adrienne was jolted into semi-consciousness by an abrupt, unexpected, and unpleasant sensation that her weight had been suddenly lifted up and then immediately pressed forcibly back down, but it did not rouse her enough to determine what might have generated that strange impression. Her mind was strangely sluggish, unable to rationalize or make conscious thoughts or movements. Her eyelids were heavy, too heavy to lift, and she gave up trying to open them, allowing herself to slip back into the comfortable darkness.

When she was roused a second time, she had no memory of the previous brief waking and was therefore unaware of the amount of time that had passed between them, nor was she aware that she was anyplace other than her comfortable bed with Justin by her side. And unlike the previous time, the drowsy fog that had kept her firmly within its clutches was ebbing, allowing cognizance to slowly return, as if she was merely awaking from her nightly sleep.

It soon became clear, however, that something was wrong. She seemed enveloped in an unpleasant floating sensation, and she suddenly wondered if she was suffering from vertigo, like she had during that inner ear infection a few years ago. It was that thought that kept her eyes firmly closed, knowing that if she opened them and saw the room whirling from the dizziness, she risked becoming sick. She would have to wait for it to ease before she dared even move!

She did not bother to suppress her groan of protest, recalling that horrible day when her equilibrium had been so badly affected by the ear infection. Not again! She had been totally worthless that day of a half, unable to even get out of bed, and leaving Justin and the boys to fend for themselves. As soon as she was able to drag herself out of bed, she would get Justin to drive her to the doctor to see if he could give her something for the dizziness.

It was then that she realized she was not in bed, and she had not just awakened from a normal sleep. She was lying on her side with a high cushion at her back, and the steady humming of a motor suggested that she was inside a vehicle of some kind.

Struggling to remember the events leading up to her loss of consciousness, she carefully turned over the day's activities in her mind: She had first gotten Justin out of bed. Even though it was Saturday, he had elected to go into the office for a few hours to catch up on some paperwork when there would be no phone calls or clients to distract him. The boys were out of school for the summer, so she had allowed them to sleep a little longer before heading out to visit with friends. Then she had gone to the grocery store to pick up some ribs, chicken, sausage, and steak for the barbeque they had planned with friends that evening. After taking her purchases home and putting them away, she had left the house to have lunch with her mother.

That was where her memory stopped, and she realized with a jolt of surprise that she had never arrived. Something had happened in the parking garage. Someone had stuck her with a needle, and . . .

Her eyes popped open, but nothing could have prepared her for astonishing reality that greeted her. She was lying on the rear seat of a small airplane!

Directly ahead of her was the back of the co-pilot's seat, and through the windows was the blue sky and fluffy white clouds. That explained the sensation of vertigo, although she knew that the drugs he had injected her with might be partially responsible for the lingering dizziness.

With a complete command of her senses now, she discovered that her hands were tied behind her back, and her ankles were also tied together. Overkill, she thought wryly. At this altitude, where would she run, even if she could get loose?

Sensing movement nearby, she lifted her head off the seat and saw the head, shoulders, and upper back of the man in the pilot's seat. From her position directly behind him, she could not see his face, just the back of his head and his short blond hair.

The plane dipped slightly as it passed through some turbulence. Her head swam dizzily, and she laid it back down, feeling grateful that she had missed lunch. Although she could not see his face, she was confident that the pilot was the same man who had drugged and kidnapped her. The question now was why. Was he after money? Did he hope to extort money from Justin? Justin was a well-known attorney in the Dallas/Fort Worth area and was a member of the wealthy and affluent Kiriakis family, so it would not be surprising that his family might be the target of an extortion attempt.

She tugged at the rope around her wrists to see if they were loose enough that she could maneuver her way out of them, but it only pulled tighter. Abandoning the attempt, she rested for a few moments, trying to decide what to do. There was very little she could do until they were back on the ground, but then, if she could get her feet free, perhaps she could head-butt him when he opened the door and run away. She quickly discarded that notion as an extreme long shot. He would recover before she could get out of the plane, and there was no way of knowing what he would do to her when he caught her again.

Where was he taking her? She had no idea how long she had been unconscious, so it was impossible to determine how long they had been in the air. They could be traveling a short distance, perhaps to a holding sight until they could contact Justin. There was a lot of wilderness in the Texas countryside, and a plane like this could easily land on a deserted country road. He could be taking her to a remote location in order to commit some crime against her.

Her stomach tightened with dread. As a young woman, she had been brutally raped by her own father, Duke Johnson, the man who had routinely beaten his wife, and from whom her mother had sought to protect her two young sons by placing them in an orphanage. Adrienne had shot him after the rape, and for a long time she had dealt with the ramifications, both physically and emotionally, of the rape and the shooting. That was behind her now; she had recovered from the event, but the thought that it might happen again by a complete stranger was enough to make her feel sick to her stomach.

"I know you're awake, Mrs. Kiriakis," the pilot said over the hum of the plane's engine. "You were under a lot longer than I thought you would be, though. I was starting to worry about you." He had turned his head slightly toward her, even though she knew he could not see her from that angle. It provided her a good view of his profile, and she looked at him closely.

He was fairly attractive as far as criminals went, clean shaven and well groomed, but that offered her no comfort. He was just a clean-cut kidnapper.

"Who are you and what the hell do you want from me?" she asked in a confrontational voice that surprised even her. Her insides were quaking with fear, but she felt an unexpected pleasure that it had not come through in her voice.

He laughed, pleasantly, abut she felt her cheeks heat up, knowing he was making fun of her. "You're a scrapper, aren't you?" he asked. "Don't worry, though. I meant it when I said that no harm would come to you, so just relax and enjoy the ride. From what I've deduced, you're just going to be some leverage to convince your brother to cooperate with my employer. That's all."

Adrienne didn't believe his assurances that she would not be harmed, yet at the same time she did not doubt that her brother Jack could acquire information that others might want. He was, after all, an investigative journalist. So, this was not about Justin after all. It was about Jack. What had he gotten himself into this time?

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, then the answer came to her immediately. "Back to Salem?"

"You're very perceptive, Mrs. Kiriakis," he confirmed. "We'll be on the ground in a few more hours, so just relax."

Adrienne did not want to relax, but it seemed she had little choice but to lie there on that small airplane seat at the total mercy of her captor.

The pilot fell silent for a while, concentrating on the controls, but she noticed that he seemed totally at ease and was presumably experienced, a fact that was somewhat comforting.

Her thoughts drifted to her mother, who must be frantic with worry, and to Justin and their four sons. The pilot had not revealed the exact time, but she knew her family must be aware by now that she was missing, and it was upsetting to know that they were worrying about her.

"Did you let my family know I'm all right?" she asked.

"They'll find out soon enough," he replied. "Think of how relieved and happy they'll be when you get back home."

Adrienne took no comfort from his casual, almost flippant reply, and in fact felt angered by it, but she made no comment, knowing it might work against her if she offended him.

She fell silent, thinking about her brother and the fact that her kidnapper apparently planned to use her as leverage. She and Jack had never been very close, not like she had become with Steve, and she wondered how accommodating he would be. They had both matured a great deal be willing to negotiate her release.

Hours later, Adrienne's ears popped uncomfortably, the first indication that the airplane was descending in its approach into Salem.

Lying on her side, unable to sit up of change position, it had been a long and uncomfortable trip. The drug that had been used in her kidnapping had worn off completely, making her more aware of the cable ties that had been used to bind her wrists and ankles. In vain, she had attempted to free her hands, but they were bound tightly, resulting in painful bruises and abrasions, and she was forced to give up her efforts.

From her reclining position in the back seat, she watched the back of the pilot's head as he made the adjustments necessary to reach the landing sight, and she wondered where that might be. She knew it would not be a well-used airport, not even a smaller airport where there were many private pilots coming and going, for it would be too difficult to explain the presence of a woman who was clearly bound as a captive or a hostage. More than likely, it would be some remote location or private airport with little to no traffic, perhaps some old abandoned and long forgotten airstrip.

She wondered again if she might be able to surprise the pilot in some way once they were on the ground. Unless he planned to carry her, he would have to untie her feet. One good, well-placed kick was all it would take to disable him temporarily, and then she could run like hell.

The plane dipped sharply as it caught a downdraft, and Adrienne gasped at the unpleasant sensation that her stomach had been left behind. Alarmed, wondering again about his experience, her eyes darted to the pilot, seeking reassurance.

Apparently accustomed to such things, he was unaffected by the dip, and continued to work the controls in a calm manner. The plane leveled off briefly, and then she felt her ears pop again as they gradually continued to descend.

Finally, he said over his shoulder, "We're about to touch down, so you'll feel a bump in a minute."

A few moments later, she felt the wheels touch down, and the plane traveled a short distance down the runway as it reduced speed. Then the pilot turned it toward the area he intended to park, and he eased it into a complete stop. Still reclining, she could see the top of a large building, presumably a hangar.

When he opened the cockpit door and climbed out, she tensed, knowing that if she was going to make an escape, the moment was nearing. But her hope of surprising the pilot with an unexpected kick or head-butt plummeted when she heard another voice.

"Did you get her?" The man spoke with a distinct British accent, and despite the commanding tone, she detected a trace of anxiety in his voice.

"Yes," the pilot replied. "Couldn't have been easier. She's tied up in the back seat. The drug worked just like you said it would. Knocked her out almost immediately."

"Good job," the British man said approvingly. "Your payment is inside."

The side door opened, bringing the sound of cicadas into the cabin, and Adrienne twisted on the seat to look into the faces of her abductors. For the first time, she had a full view of the pilot's face. He was older than she had thought, but still much younger than the British man who stood beside him, both of them appraising her as if they were window shopping.

The British man wore a business suit, giving him a very distinguished look. His hairline had receded, and the remaining hair was combed severely back from his face, and seemingly unaffected by the gentle breeze that stirred the hair of the pilot.

"Well, well, well. Mrs. Kiriakis, the Johnson sister, trussed up like Grandmother's Christmas turkey. I trust you had a nice flight. Sorry we had no refreshments for you, but I'm sure you figured out by now that this is not a pleasure trip."

She wanted to make a snarky response to his spiteful comments, but knew that they held her fate in their criminal hands, so she decided it might be imprudent to insult them. So she said nothing, and simply thought angry thoughts to herself.

"What, now, cat got your tongue?" the British man taunted.

Adrienne frowned. She had no idea who this man was or why he was acting like he held such contempt for her, but he did not rise to his challenge to engage in a battle of insults.

"No comment?" he said, derisively. "And here I thought all you Johnsons were saucy and audacious. You disappoint me."

In response to the rude man's unprovoked antagonism, another male voice spoke, this one also with a British accent, but without the distinctively jeering quality, "Leave her alone, Mr. Vaughn. She's done nothing to you. She's merely a pawn in all this."

Adrienne's eyes fell upon this third man who had approached from behind. He was younger than the other two, and his face was more pleasant with none of the hostility she saw in the countenance of the other Englishman.

The one called Vaughn was clearly in charge and clearly displeased with the insubordination. He gave the younger man a look of silent reprimand, then said, "Get her out of there and let's go inside. I don't want that plane sitting out here any longer than necessary"

He stepped back, and the younger one climbed into the narrow space inside the plane, and cut the cable tie that bound her ankles. He tossed it aside, then took a firm grip on her arm and helped her out onto the concrete. "Watch your step getting out," he cautioned.

Her legs were shaking, partly from fear, partly from lying in the same cramped position for so long, and her ankle nearly gave out when she stepped from the plane. She recovered quickly, but he noticed her unsteady gait.

"Can you make it?" he asked in a kind voice.

She nodded. "I think so."

He maintained a firm hold on her arm as he led her away from the plane, but the gesture seemed less about control than an offer of assistance. Her arms were still tied behind her back, and he was careful not to pull her off balance. Under different circumstances, she might have

liked him, but she did not confuse the fact that whatever this was about, he was involved in her kidnapping, and therefore just as guilty as the others.

As she walked, she got her first look at the landing site, and it was not what she had expected. The runway was, in fact, a narrow, paved access road, and what she had thought was a hanger was clearly an abandoned warehouse, large and sprawling, but there was no hint at what it might have been used for. On one end of the building were the loading docks with their large garage style doors, now closed and padlocked. She was being led toward a narrow door, already standing open to receive them, and beside it was another garage style door, this one smaller than the ones at the top of the loading docks, presumably for deliveries made by vehicles

other than large semi-trucks.

The pilot reached the door first and disappeared through it, apparently no longer interested in his captive, now that his job was complete. Adrienne entered next, followed directly by the younger British man, who had not yet let go of her. With his hand enclosing her upper arm,

she had no choice but to enter, hoping it was not a fatal mistake. Vaughn brought up the rear, and Adrienne glanced over her shoulder at him, uneasy at having him behind her.

Inside the door, no one paused, nor did they allow her to pause. It was not dark inside, as she had expected, for there were some windows high up on the walls that permitted sunlight to enter. A car was sitting just inside the garage style door, and she knew they were keeping it out of sight.

They led her across the smooth concrete floor to the opposite side of the warehouse, where a sort of living area had been set up with several pieces of obviously cast-off furniture.

A sofa was sitting against the wall with a badly scuffed end table and a lumpy recliner were arranged in front of it in the way a person might assemble living room furniture. A dozen yards away in a separate area were several other chairs, a card table, and a lamp.

Adrienne was led to the sofa, confirming that this area had been arranged for her minimal comfort. The other area was obviously intended for whoever would be guarding her. She hoped it would not be Vaughn, for there was no doubt that he would resume his antagonism.

"Sit down," she was instructed.

She did as she was told, and to her astonishment, Vaughn approached with a shackle and a length of chain, the other end of which was securely fastened to a vertical support beam. He passed the shackle to the younger Englishman, who knelt and fastened it around her ankle, securing it with a small key lock.

His expression was apologetic when he looked up into her face, his eyes briefly meeting hers. "There is enough length to walk around a bit," he told her. "You can sit on either the sofa or the recliner, whichever you prefer. The loo is over there," he added, indicating a closed door a short distance away.

"The loo?" she asked.

"Lavatory. Bathroom. There is a gap at the bottom of the door that should permit the chain to fit under it, so you can close the door completely for privacy."

She looked at it and confirmed that there was a two-inch space between the door and floor, then looked into his face, certain she saw sympathy there. "Why are you doing this to me? Why am I here?"

He looked away briefly with a decidedly guilty expression, but when he looked back, he had regained his composure. "Just sit tight. You'll be out of here soon."

He stood up and backed away.

Nearby, in the other area, Vaughn passed the pilot an envelope, presumably his payment for delivering her, and he opened it up and thumbed through the stack of bills.

"You're very generous, Mr. Vaughn," he said, pleased. "Thanks."

Vaughn gave a curt nod, indicating that the pilot was not only dismissed, he had already been congratulated on a job well done and deserved no additional recognition. "Remember, your silence is expected."

"Hey, I can be very discrete," he assured him. "I did the job and collected my pay. The rest is none of my business. If I can be of any further use to you -"

"We'll call you," Vaughn said shortly. "Don't linger in Salem. I want that plane out of here, now." He then turned his back, demonstrating that the conversation was over.

The pilot took the hint and made his exit. A few minutes later, they heard the airplane engine start again.

Vaughn waited until the plane had departed, the sound of its engine fading into the distance, then he addressed Adrienne. "In answer to your question, my dear, you are bait. You shouldn't be here very long, provided your brother is willing to cooperate with us. I do apologize for bringing you all the way back to Salem, but it was necessary. His wife was supposed to be the one to convince him to adhere to our demands, but circumstances did not work out to our favor. You were the backup plan. We know he thinks very highly of you, highly enough that he was willing to go to prison in your place when you killed your father -"

Adrienne shook her head, quickly, assuming that they had confused one brother with the other. "No, that wasn't Jack; that was Steve."

A smile played around the corners of Vaughn's thin lips. "I know."

She started to speak, then stopped herself, puzzled. If he knew that it was Steve who had confessed to killing their father, then how could he make the mistake of not knowing that Steve had been murdered? After a long pause, during which time he did not clarify, she said, "I don't understand. Steve is dead."

"Is he?" Vaughn asked, the corners of his mouth crinkling in a smile that did not quite reach his eyes.

"Of course he is. I was at the funeral. I saw him lying in his coffin at the funeral home."

"But did you check to see if he was in it before it was lowered into the ground?"

The younger man had been listening with growing annoyance. "You're one sick bastard, you know that?" he asked.

"I would watch my tongue if I were you, Carlton," Vaughn said. "You can be replaced, you know."

"Too late in the game for that. You need me, and you know it."

Vaughn glanced at his watch, as if bored with the conversation. Ignoring Carlton's comment, he said, "It's getting late. I'm going to the hotel now, Carlton. If there is any kind of emergency, you can phone me, but otherwise I'd like to enjoy myself while I'm here. I expect to have Donovan's number by morning, so I'll come straight here once I receive it. Jennings will relieve you at midnight. And Carlton," he added in a menacing tone. "Don't get any ideas. You know the penalty for disloyalty."

With a confident stride, Vaughn turned and walked toward the car, opened the door, and got inside, muttering a complaint to himself about the steering wheel being positioned on the wrong side. Clearly accustomed to being in command, he waited impatiently while Carlton opened the garage-style door, then he backed the vehicle out and drove away along the narrow road that the

plane had used as a runway.

After he had gone, Carlton lowered the garage door again, and walked back toward the separate area that had been set up with chairs, his shoes tapping hollowly on the smooth concrete floor. Picking up a book from the card table, he opened it up as he sat down in one of the chairs, settling in for guard duty.

Adrienne watched him, her brain filled with unanswered questions. Vaughn had alluded to the possibility that Steve's body might not have been inside the coffin when it was buried. Where, then, was her brother? Unable to accept the veiled suggestion that Steve might be alive, she wondered if they had they stolen his body. And for what purpose.

"Mr. Carlton," she ventured.

He looked up from his book.

"What did that other man mean about Steve? Did he steal Steve's body before the funeral?"

Carlton sighed and set his book aside, clearly unhappy with being placed in a position where he must deal with the questions their hostage would naturally have about Vaughn's vague hints about her brother. But Vaughn had left no specific instructions that he must keep silent about it, and

informing her himself would prevent additional taunting and torment from his cruel employer. "I suppose there is no reason I can't tell you. You're going to find out soon enough. Steve Johnson is alive."

His words drilled into her mind like the stab of a knife, or perhaps the proverbial ton of bricks being dropped from high above, leaving her numbed with astonishment.

"I'm sorry," he said, sympathetically. "I know it's hard to hear, knowing how close you two apparently were. I wasn't involved in the kidnapping," he added, uncertain why he was even bothering to tell her that. "I was just hired to see to his needs and to make certain he didn't escape."

Her first reaction was vehement denial. There was no way Steve could be alive. She had seen the body at the funeral home! She had touched his cold face, and wept beside his coffin. Kayla was a medical professional. They would not have been able to fool her.

"No, that can't be!" she retorted, heatedly. "You're mistaken! His wife was a nurse at the time. She was with him when he died. She would know! I don't know what you and that other man, that Vaughn or whatever his name is, are up to, but it's cruel and malicious!"

Carlton's face was sympathetic. "It's true, Mrs. Kiriakis. I've been his guard for the last eight years. It's too complicated to explain, and I don't have all the answers anyway, but his death was faked. He escaped from us a few days ago, and we've been trying to recapture him ever since. We know that he arrived in Salem sometime this morning, with Shane Donovan. He's here, right now, and our intent is to get him back."

She fell silent again as her mind struggled to come to terms with the alteration of everything she had believed over the past 15 years.

"I know it's hard for you to accept. In your place, I would have doubts as well. But I assure you, it is the truth. We would not be here, otherwise."

She looked up at him, and even from the distance, he could see the tears glistening in her eyes. "How can this be?" She asked. "If this is true, why did they do this to him?"

Here, Carlton hesitated. Telling her that her brother was alive was one thing; revealing the details of his incarceration and the reason behind it was another. "He has information needed by someone very powerful," he said, cautiously, then added quickly, "I don't know who the person is, or what the information is, specifically. I only know that he's very rich and very influential, and my boss is scared as hell of him. That's why we're here, and that's why you were brought here as a bargaining chip. You will be exchanged for him."

Adrienne's respiration increased. If Steve was alive, she knew beyond a doubt that he would willingly hand himself over to save her. Her only recourse was to attempt to prevent that exchange from happening.

"Can I talk to him?" she asked.

He nodded. "Probably. Vaughn is working to obtain Shane Donovan's phone number, and when we do, we'll give him a call and make the arrangements. I'm sure Vaughn will allow you to talk to him as a way of letting him know that we actually have you in our custody."

Her expression changed to panic. "No!" she protested. "Please don't do this! If he's really alive, just leave him alone!" Changing tactics, she appealed to his sense of decency. "I can tell your heart isn't in this thing that you're doing. Steve's brother in law, Roman, is Chief of Police. Let me go, and I'm sure he can help you out of this mess."

Carlton looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head. "I can't. I'm sorry."

As if to convey to her that the conversation was over, he set his book aside and walked outside, presumably to check the area for unwanted attention.


	37. Chapter 37

"So, how have you been?" Kim asked once they were seated at _El Restaurante del Rio_, Salem's newest Mexican restaurant constructed on the high west bank overlooking the river.

Lonely was the response that came to mind as Shane observed his former wife from across the square table. Jeannie sat at the right-angle edge between them, her head turning back and forth to look at their faces, watching attentively for signs of interest between her parents. She seemed mystified at the painfully uncomfortable silence that had dominated the car ride, and she clearly feared it would continue now that they were seated.

"Fine," he replied to Kim's question. The automatic response sounded generic and bland, and he cringed inwardly at the insipidness. "You?"

"Yeah," she replied. "I've been fine too."

They fell silent again, browsing the menus. When he had suggested leaving it up to their daughter to select the restaurant of her choice, Shane had not expected that she would pick an ethnic restaurant known for rich and spicy food. Following the pizza he had eaten for lunch at the safe house, he could almost feel the heartburn starting already in anticipation of yet another rich meal until he saw the soup and salad selection, and experienced a sense of relief.

When their waitress came over to take their orders, they told her what they wanted, and then after she had gone, the awkward silence hung between them again, as wide as the river that flowed past the windows. The restaurant was crowded with patrons, and although Jeannie had expressed disappointment, they had accepted the table near the wall farthest from the windows and their view to avoid a lengthy wait.

For several moments, they sipped their drinks and nibbled on chips and salsa.

"So, how's Miss Peach?" Kim asked, breaking the silence again, inquiring about the agent who had been Shane's partner and who had spent much of her service undercover.

Shane had to admire her attempt to strike up a conversation. "She's fine," he replied, then scolded himself inwardly for the nonspecific answer, and elaborated, "She retired a few years back, so I don't see her often. I did see her a couple of years ago quite by chance, and she asked about you."

Kim's expression seemed to light up. "Did she?"

"Yes. She was always fond of you." He did not add that Peachy had given him a sound scolding for not working through that rough spot in their marriage.

"I always liked her too. She was a good person to have watching your back, and I always felt like she helped keep you safe."

Shane chuckled. "She was a character. Reliable and outspoken, and always kept me on my toes. But you're right; she was definitely an asset to have on your side in a tight situation, and I owed my safety to her on more than one occasion."

After another pause, Kim asked, "What did you tell her when she asked about me? I mean, this is the first time we've seen each other in years. You look pretty good, by the way," she added with a pleasant smile.

"You look pretty good yourself," he countered. Did she ever! "Well, I told Peachy that I hadn't seen you in a long time, but that you were remarried and apparently happy."

Kim sighed and let her eyes stray to the television that was mounted on the wall where baseball players moved soundlessly in a stadium. The words of the announcer appeared in continuous closed caption feed across the bottom of the screen.

"There's something you don't know," she said, slowly, responding at last to his comment. "Phillip and I are divorced."

Shane felt his heart leap unexpectedly inside his chest, and he silently scolded himself for his reaction to the demise of her marriage, especially if it had enabled her to find some measure of happiness. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," he said, his voice sympathetic.

"Don't be," Kim told him, turning away from the television to face him again. His expression was neutral, non-judgmental, but she knew he was almost certainly wondering why the marriage had broken up. "We had a few fairly good years, but living and working in Hollywood as a film producer . . ." Her voice trailed, and she shook her head, trying to find a tactful way to tell him about the breakup. "What is it they always say? The grass is greener on the other side of the fence'?"

"More accurately, someone let the bull out of the paddock," Jeannie said, disgustedly, then plowed ahead with no attempt to hide the disdain for her former stepfather. "He was fooling around with one of his pretty young starlets. I didn't think she was all that pretty, personally, but he was practically slobbering over her. Boy did he look silly, this older man running around with this 20-year-old floozy on his arm. She didn't even care at all that he was married. What a -"

"Jeannie!" Kim scolded.

"Well, it's true! Phillip didn't care anything for us, or he wouldn't have been running around like that. They deserved each other," the girl finished. "Both of them were as dumb as a mud fence."

"That's my girl! Tell it like it is!" Shane laughed, delighted with his daughter's explanation and description, very aware that many children who were raised from infancy by a stepparent often grew closer to that person and away from the natural parent. Jeannie apparently held little respect for Phillip.

"Anyway," Kim said, indicating that she would discuss Phillip no more, "I was ready to get out of Hollywood, so we moved farther up the coast to Seattle."

"Why Seattle?" Shane asked. "I'm surprised you didn't stay in L.A. to be near Kayla."

"We didn't live all that close. Los Angeles is a big area, and we just never could seem to get together because of our jobs and our own circles of friends. I missed living a cooler climate, so when a job opportunity came my way that involved relocating to Seattle, I decided to take it."

"So, what have you been doing with yourself?"

"Not much, really. Mainly just working and spending time with the kids. Andrew is becoming more independent, and we don't see him as much now as we once did."

Shane sighed. "Well, you see him more often than I do. In fact, you see both of them more than I do." He reached out and took Jeannie's hand on the tabletop. "You, young lady, hardly ever come to see me anymore. Do you realize how long it's been since you've come to England?"

Jeannie squirmed, guiltily. "Talk about a guilt trip," she accused. "It's just such a long flight and . . ." She shrugged, trying to find a way to express her thoughts without hurting his feelings. "It isn't that I don't want to see you. I'd love to see you more often. But I don't like to fly, and it's such a long way."

"I know," he said, letting her off the hook, knowing that he could have taken vacation time to fly to the States to see her. "It's a long flight. I understand. I have missed you, though."

"I've missed you too, Dad." She leaned over to hug him. "I'm glad you came."

"So am I." It felt good to embrace his child, and he gave her an extra squeeze of affection before releasing her. "I just can't get over how much you've grown since the last time I saw you."

"She and Andrew have both had some serious growth spurts," Kim said, careful to avoid pointing out the fact that it had been several years since he had last seen them.

"So how come you're in Salem?" Jeannie asked. "Did you know that Mom and I were here?"

Shane felt a twinge of guilt at the fact that he had not gone to Salem specifically to see her. That had been an unexpected bonus. His eyes darted to his ex-wife, wondering how much she had told their daughter.

As if reading his mind, she said, "I haven't told anyone why you're here. I wasn't sure how much I could safely say."

He nodded, then explained, "I flew in this morning, but I didn't actually realize you and your mother were here. I'm thrilled that you are, though."

Jeannie sighed, bitterly, her mood instantly turning dark. "It's the I.S.A., isn't it?"

"Partly."

"I _HATE_ the I.S.A.," she declared, hotly. Leaning back in her chair, she folded her arms in a resentful gesture, avoiding the startled expression on her father's face.

"Jeannie," Kim warned, quietly.

"Mom, even when Andrew and I went over there to see him, we spent a lot of our time on our own because he had I.S.A. stuff that needed his attention. Even in the same house, even though we'd flown halfway around the world to spend time with him, we hardly ever saw him. Even when he took vacation time to be with us, they still called him with things they wanted him to do, and he never told them no! That's why neither of us likes to go there! We didn't fly all that way to ride horses by ourselves or play croquet by ourselves, or eat in that huge dining room by ourselves."

She stopped, looking ashamed by her outburst. "I'm sorry, Dad, but Andrew and I wanted to spend time with you, but even when you were with us, it was like you were someplace else all the time because you were always thinking about I.S.A. stuff."

Shane had been listening to his daughter's angry outburst with solemn attentiveness, remembering all those times he had requested vacation time that coincided with his children's' visits, only to be called away by one urgently sensitive case or another. He had not realized how intuitive they were about his distractions.

"I think I'm the one who needs to apologize," he said. "I had no idea I was so neglectful. I guess I've allowed the I.S.A. to dominate the biggest part of my life, and I do have regrets about that. I'm not even sure when it took so much control over me. Before I met your mother, probably." He was looking directly at Kim, as if trying to convey a particular message. "I apologize for that as well."

Kim looked back at him, wondering if the look meant what she thought it did, that he was acknowledging his own role in the failure of their marriage. "Well, you have an important job," she said, carefully.

Jeanie was not so tactful. "More important than us?" she challenged with youthful indignation.

"No!" Shane responded quickly. "How can you think that?"

"Then why did you leave us? Why didn't you and Mom try to work things out?"

Shane's eyes met those of his ex-wife for several moments, while Jeannie waited for an answer. With a sigh, he said, "It wasn't that simple."

"Why not?" she challenged.

"Jeannie, there were things going on that were between your mother and me, unfortunate things that affected the way we felt about each other at the time. Let's just say that we both made some mistakes that hurt the other one, things I know we both regret."

"What kind of things?" Jeannie demanded.

"Things that were between your father and me, Jeannie," Kim said, firmly.

"In other words, 'none of my business', right?" Jeannie said, sullenly.

"Well, yes," Kim agreed. "Those were bad times, but they happened before you were even born."

Jeannie was clearly dissatisfied with the lack of information that her parents had provided, but before she could pursue the subject, the waitress arrived with a large tray holding salads for Shane and Kim and an enchilada platter for Jeannie.

"Can I get you anything else?" asked the waitress.

"No, thank you. We're fine," Shane replied, then after she had left to check on the next table, he turned to his daughter, who was applying salsa to one of her enchiladas. "Are you going to eat all that?"

She looked up, accepting that the discussion about her parents' divorce was closed.

"Sure. You should try it," she told him. "It's great."

"Thank you, but this late in the evening, I think this is as much as I can handle. I'd be up with heartburn all night."

Kim laughed, softly. "Digestion seems to change as we get older, doesn't it?"

"It certainly does," he agreed. "But I am thoroughly enjoying the company."

Jeanne observed her parents as they smiled at one another across the table, and felt a surge of hope. Maybe this trip to Salem would be worth it after all!


	38. Chapter 38

Kayla drew a deep breath and released it in a heavy sigh as she appraised her appearance in the mirror in the rather small master bathroom. No matter what she did, her hair was not going to cooperate that night, that important first night of hers and Steve's reunion. Frowning, she worked a particularly difficult area with the hairbrush again before giving up completely and placing the brush on the small cabinet space at the edge of the sink. There was a slight wave in her hair, and wispy locks sometimes stuck out at odd angles, a little annoyance was making a stubborn appearance that night.

Gripping the edge of the sink nervously with both hands, she studied her appearance again. Aside from her slightly mussed hair, she was satisfied with her appearance. She still maintained a good figure for her height and age, her skin was good, and she had kept herself healthy. Her white nightgown was her favorite summer gown, a nylon knee length gown and with one inch straps instead of sleeves, but she found herself wishing she had invested in something more glamorous. Well, she thought to herself, she probably wouldn't have it on long anyway.

Color rose in her cheeks at the thought, and she smiled at her reflection. She could not remember a time in her life when she had been as happy as she was that moment. Steve, the man she thought she had lost a decade ago, was waiting for her just beyond the door, safe and sound and ready to resume their life together. They were being given an unexpected gift; a second chance, and she offered a silent prayer of gratitude.

Deeming herself presentable, she reached for a bottle of honeysuckle scented mist and sprayed it on her neck. It was one of her favorite scents, softer and more subtle than perfume, and was one she felt Steve would appreciate.

As she returned the bottle to the edge of the sink, she noticed that her heartbeat and respiration had suddenly accelerated, as if she was a young and inexperienced girl. Raising her hand, she placed it over her heart to calm the wild flutter, then turned off the bathroom light and stepped into the bedroom.

The bedroom was dark except for the broad beam of moonlight that formed a silvery square on the carpeted floor and illuminated the bare torso of her husband, who stood silently at the window gazing out into the night, and she stood for several moments observing his motionless posture.

Like her, he was in good physical condition, this in spite of his years of captivity. He was leaner than he had been before, but he seemed surprisingly fit, considering his ordeal. She wanted him to have a thorough examination as soon as possible, but until then, she would see to any needs he might have.

Steve still had not moved and seemed intent on something outside, sending a stab of concern through her. "Steve?"

He turned to face her, and she saw his smile in the moonlight. "You look like an angel standing there, all white and beautiful." He reached out his hand toward her, and she went to him, taking his hand in hers.

"No angel, I'm afraid. Just me."

"Same thing," he contradicted with a smile in his voice, then looked out into the darkness again.

Concerned by his interest in the view outside, she peered out the window, but saw nothing except the moon suspended high above the dark trees at the edge f the yard. "Do you see something out there?"

"No. I was just enjoying the moonlight. Until my escape from that hellhole, I hadn't seen the moon at all since before my kidnapping. And then, when I escaped and was on the run, I couldn't take the time to stop and enjoy just looking at it."

Her hand was soft on his upper arm. "It must have been terrible being locked in that place for so long."

"It was," he acknowledged. His arm encircled her, drawing her closer against his chest. "If it wasn't for my memories of you, I don't think I could have kept my sanity." He pressed his cheek against her head. "Being away from you and Stephanie was almost unbearable, but I always knew what I had waiting here at home. Escape was always my goal."

Sensing his need to talk about his experiences with a loved one, someone he trusted completely, she asked, "Were you locked in that room the whole time?"

He was quiet for a moment, thinking about that, then said, "I'm not sure. I've been standing here thinking about that. I always thought I had been held for maybe five or six years at the absolute most. Even with a misconception of time due to not having a calendar or means to mark the passage of time, it means there are several years of which I have no memory at all."

Kayla studied his serious expression in the soft radiance from the moon, noticing that his face was thoughtful, pensive, even troubled over what was apparently a lapse in memory. Clearly, it was something that was weighing heavily on his mind, and if it bothered him, then it bothered her.

"You haven't mentioned this before," she said, her comment letting him know that she was willing to listen if he needed to talk.

"I know. It's been on my mind off and on since the meeting this afternoon, and I've been wanting to talk with you about it, but there's been a lot going on today. One of those agents asked me the same thing you did just now, and I didn't really have an answer for him either. I was so shocked when Shane told me how much time had actually passed, but at the time I was more overwhelmed by how much of Stephanie's life I had missed than by anything else. All those childhood milestones that parents are supposed to experience together . . . her first words, her first steps, kindergarten, skinned knees and elbows, no front teeth; they're gone forever, and I missed them all." He sighed with regret and disappointment. "The things they stole from me can never be replaced. You have no idea what that feels like."

Kayla's heart clenched with sorrow for the major events in their child's life that he had not been able to witness, and she could only imagine how that would make a parent feel to lose those things forever. "I recorded a lot of those milestones in photographs and on video. I know it can never take the place of actually being there and seeing them as they happened, but maybe it will help that you can at least see them."

"Oh, baby," he breathed into her hair, a wave of emotion moistening his eye. "I'd love to see them. When this is settled and we can get back to a normal life, we'll watch them together, and you and Stephanie can tell me all about all those years that I missed."

"Sounds like a plan. And there is still her senior prom. You'll get to be there for that."

"And scare the hell out of her date," he added, with amusement in his voice.

She laughed. "That too. And when the time comes, you'll be here to walk her down the aisle and share her father-daughter dance. You missed a lot of her childhood, but there are many more memories you'll have." She snuggled close against him, her forehead pressed against the right side of his neck while her hand rested directly over the familiar dagger tattoo on his left pectoral. It was one of her favorite positions, one she had missed terribly in his absence. Absently, her fingertip traced the outline of the tattoo. It was a reminder of his other life, a harder life before he had met her, but it was as much a part of him as the patch.

He held her close, his hand moving slowly up and down her bare arm in an affectionate way, the way he had done years ago, and he marveled at how quickly they had settled back into the familiar and comfortable gestures they had used to please the other.

Kayla broke the silence that had settled over them, her breath warm against his skin. "Did Shane offer any thoughts on what might have caused your memory loss during that time?"

"No. I think I kind of withdrew for a while after he told me, and he just left me alone for a while to deal with it." He paused again, thoughtfully. "I've always had a good memory. Even when I was a small child, before Jack was born, I remember a lot of things that happened back then. Not many pleasant memories, but I do remember them. But no matter how hard I try, I can't account for those early years right after my kidnapping. I don't even know how I got there. It's all a blank."

"What's the first thing you remember?"

He pondered the question for several moments, a deep frown of concentration on his brow. "I can't be sure. I just remember bits and pieces of things that are so vague and disjointed that I'm not even sure if they're dreams or if they really happened. I can't put them in order or make any sense out of them. Things like being on a bed and someone in a white coat and mask leaning over me -"

Kayla lifted her head from his chest to look into his face. "A doctor?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. Or a mad scientist," he added, a lame attempt at humor that he didn't really feel. "I think I remember waking up at one point on a respirator, but that could have happened before the kidnapping, when I was in the hospital. I just can't be sure. It just feels so strange that there are not just a few days or weeks that I can't remember, but entire years. How the hell could that happen?"

Kayla could think of only one thing. "Could they have kept you drugged during that time?" she asked. "That would certainly explain the vagueness of the memories you do have from that time."

"I thought about that. I don't know. If they did, why for so long? And why did they suddenly stop?"

"They never drugged you during the later years?"

"No." He shrugged. "Well, there were a couple of times when I tried to escape and was shot with that damn tranquilizer gun. But when I woke up from that, the effects didn't linger. I never had that crazy fuzzy memory or memory lapses like before."

"I wish I had some answers for you," she said. "Without an examination during that time, it's impossible to determine what kind of drugs they might have used. Different drugs affect people differently, and since Vaughn used something related to the I.S.A. to give the illusion of death, your memory loss could be an after effect of whatever they used. Shane made it seem very dangerous."

"Yeah, he did," Steve agreed.

"Maybe him or Roman will be able to track down what they used on you."

Turning away from the window, he cradled her face in both his hands so he could look into her eyes with earnest curiosity. "You thought I was dead, Sweetness. You buried a coffin you thought I was in, and all this time you thought you were a widow. During that same time, I assumed everyone knew I had been kidnapped, and I drew my strength from my memories of you and the belief that back home, you were still looking for me, that eventually someone might find me."

"Steve . . ." she whispered sadly.

"No," he interrupted. "I don't tell you these things for sympathy or anything. I don't care about all that now. I understand now why no one was looking. Shane told me you hadn't remarried, but I was so afraid I'd get home and find that you had fallen in love with someone else, and there would be no room for me . . . ." His voice trailed.

"That could never happen," Kayla told him, firmly. With his hands still cradling her face, she brought her arms up inside his and pushed back a stray lock of hair, then rested her hands on his bearded cheeks. "I love you, Steve. I never stopped loving you. I did go out with other men because I did believe I was a widow, but my heart was never really in it. If my family pressured me, I told them that men my age came with too much excess baggage that I didn't want to deal with and I suppose it might be true to some degree, but the real truth is that it didn't feel right. I didn't understand it, but it was as if my heart knew you were still out there somewhere, even though my eyes had seen your dead body and my mind accepted it." She smiled though the tears that glistened in her eyes. "And here you are, and I'm happier than I ever thought I could be again. It's as if I've come back to life along with you."

For several moments, they gazed at one another in the moonlight, then Steve leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers, softly and tenderly at first, then gradually progressing to urgency and desperate need.

"Oh, Sweetness," he breathed when they parted.

"You're shaking," she said, surprised by the trembling she felt beneath her hands.

"I know," he said, breathlessly. "It's been 15 years . . . I feel like a school boy having his first time."

"I know exactly what you mean," she whispered.

He drew her into his arms again, and for a while, there was no one else in their world except the two of them.


	39. Chapter 39

Adrienne spent a sleepless night on the lumpy, musty-smelling sofa in darkness that was deeper and more intense than anything she had ever experienced. The small windows, positioned just below the ceiling, were filthy, smudged with years of accumulated grime, and effectively blocked the moonlight from entering the large building. As a result, she was unable to see the shackle that gripped her ankle in its iron claw, but she could feel the weight of it and the chain that draped off the edge of the sofa and snaked across the floor to the support column to which it was secured, stark evidence that she was captive to criminals with unknown intentions.

In all probability, the local power company had terminated the electricity to the warehouse as soon as the business had closed its doors for the last time, and she wondered why Vaughn had not supplied candles or a lantern to the hapless guard who, like her, was forced to sit in the dark. The answer came to her almost as soon as she had considered it: Any light coming from the abandoned building might be noticed, and subsequently generate unwanted attention from local authorities. It was abundantly clear by their criminal behavior that these people wanted to avoid contact with law enforcement.

Carlton carried a flashlight, which he used sparingly to make his way around the building and sometimes out the small pedestrian door, presumably to check for indications that their presence had been discovered, but for the most part, he merely sat quietly in his chair and waited for the other guard to relieve him from duty.

Her mind was active with fear and worry, wondering at the true motivation for her kidnapping and their intentions toward her and the person they apparently believed was Steve. The vague taunts from Vaughn and Carlton's brief explanation had been insufficient to satisfy her questions or convince her that this person was any more than an imposter. After his short narrative, Carlton had ended his contact with her and made a pointed effort to avoid additional discussions, preferring to keep his distance and his silence. He retreated to his chair, and passed the first few hours reading a book, until the sun had set behind the rolling green hills, making it impossible to see the words.

Sometime around midnight, her first guard was replaced by a surly, restless man he called Jennings, who was the polar opposite of the more mild-mannered Carlton. She did not bother trying to strike up a conversation with Jennings in an effort to obtain more information. In contrast to Carlton, there was something about him that gave her to creeps. Even though he rarely spoke to her and spent most of his time outside, away from the total darkness inside the warehouse, she sensed hostility and hatred him; hatred for this man they believed was her eldest brother.

Staring upward toward a ceiling she could not see, Adrienne spent most of the night wondering who this man was and why they believed him to be Steve. Her brother had survived, Carlton had said, but her mind rejected his words. Medical professionals, including his wife Kayla, had pronounced him dead. She had accepted that as fact, for she had seen the body, had touched his cold face. They must be mistaken.

She also thought of her family. Mama, Justin, and the boys must be worried sick about her. By now, they would have located her van in the parking garage, but she knew with certainty that they would never think to look for her in Salem.

Unlike Carlton, who had waited patiently in the chair, Jennings was nervous and restless, pacing almost continuously throughout the night, behavior that would have prevented Adrienne from securing any rest, had she been able to do so. His footsteps on the smooth concrete were constant when he was inside, but most of his time was spent outside the smaller pedestrian door. Occasionally, she detected a whiff of cigarette smoke. Once, he came inside and shone the flashlight on the shackle, as if to reassure himself that she was still securely bound. The flashlight was then directed into her face, noting that she was awake. She cringed away from the brightness.

"We should have done that to your brother," he said in a hostile voice. "I bet that would have tempered that smart mouth of his."

His scathing words and bitter tone were a challenge for her to defend her brother, but she refused to respond to it, uncertain how he would react and uncertain that the man he spoke of was actually Steve. She could see his face behind the flashlight beam, and stifled a shudder at his hateful scowl. The light was bright, but she resisted the urge to look away, reluctant to lower her guard around the man who clearly held so much contempt for her. She felt certain he had been given orders not to harm her, for a mistreated hostage might damage their bargaining power, but his expression told her he would like nothing more than to do physical harm to her.

Her refusal to answer him seemed to anger him, but he did not pursue a response. Turning on his heel, he flipped off the light. His footsteps moved toward the door, and she breathed a sigh of relief when he went through it. Whenever he was inside, his presence seemed to fill the large building with negative energy that gradually dissipated whenever he went outside

He did not come back inside for the rest of the night, and just as dawn turned the black interior to soft gray, permitting visibility, she heard a car approaching along the narrow road that had served as the landing strip. Stepping back inside, Jennings released a latch and manually hoisted the door up to admit the car.

The vehicle was driven slowly inside, and Jennings lowered the door behind it, effectively concealing it from passersby who might find it odd to see a car parked beside an abandoned building. The ignition was shut off, and Vaughn opened the car door and got out, dressed as impeccably as he had been the day before.

"How is our guest?" he asked. She heard the confidence in his cheerful voice, confidence that her capture had provided the bargaining chip he needed to achieve his goal. The slam of the car door as he pushed it closed echoed hollowly through the building, and his footsteps tapped on the smooth concrete floor as he walked toward her with Jennings at his side.

"She was pretty quiet all night," Jennings replied. "Unlike that smart-mouth brother of hers," he added, bitterly. "He gave us lip the whole time we were guarding him, taunting us all the time."

Adrienne felt something stir inside her, for that description sounded very much like Steve. If he had been held captive, there was no doubt in her mind that he would have given them as much grief as possible, even if it was merely verbal barbs tossed out to annoy them.

_No, it can't be_, she reminded herself. _Steve's dead._

"Let's see how smart he is when he finds out we have his sister," Vaughn said as they started walking slowly toward her. "That should cool his heels a bit."

"I'd like to see his face when he finds out!" Jennings said with a laugh of anticipation. "That would make up for a lot of the crap he gave us."

"Now, now," Vaughn said in a voice that could have been either soothing or mocking; Adrienne was unable to determine which, and judging from Jennings' expression, neither could he. "Let's not get blinded by revenge," Vaughn continued. "We're here to do a job, and once it's done, we'll be wealthy men because of it."

"Did you get Donovan's number?" Jennings asked.

"It wasn't easy, but yes, my man at the I.S.A. finally came through. I'll give Donovan a call shortly and break the news to him," he replied, his voice tense with disgust and open hatred for his former colleague. "Once that is done, he will carry my message to Johnson, and that'll give the loving brother some time to think about it before we make final contact."

"You should let me follow Donovan," Jennings urged, eagerly. "We know where he's staying, and he will lead us right to Johnson. We know they're probably hiding him in a remote area. We could organize an assault, and -"

"And call even more attention to ourselves," Vaughn interrupted. "You can be assured that Johnson is under heavy guard. It isn't worth the effort or the risk of trying to get to him like that. Kidnapping a loved one; now that is an effective method of neutralizing him. He'll do anything to get her released. Isn't that right, Mrs. Kiriakis?" he said, raising his voice as he directed the question to her.

Still lying on the sofa, she looked at him, but did not answer. Her mind was racing frantically, trying to make sense of what she was hearing.

"I know how he was willing to go to prison when you shot your father to death. I'm sure he'll be willing to turn himself over to us in exchange for you." When she did not respond, he chuckled softly, then glanced at his watch and addressed Jennings again. "It's still quite early, so I'll give Donovan a little more time before I place the call. If he's with Johnson, we'll let her talk to her brother. Once we set up the deal, I'll get Carlton and Harding out here to help carry it out. In the meantime, I brought coffee and pastries for your breakfast. They're still in the car."

Jennings returned to the vehicle to fetch his breakfast from the front seat while Vaughn approached Adrienne.

She barely noticed him walking toward her. Her heartbeat had quickened during their conversation. Could it be true? Could Steve somehow be alive and in protective custody? Whoever this man was, they were going to let her talk to him. Could it possibly be that she was going to hear her brother's voice again for the first time in more than a decade?

"Sit up, Mrs. Kiriakis," Vaughn commanded, stopping beside the sofa.

Adrienne glared at him, prepared to refuse his command simply because did not want to give him the pleasure of totally controlling her, but then detected a whiff of coffee and felt her stomach react eagerly to the aroma. Abandoning her feelings of rebellion, she swung her legs off the edge of the sofa and sat up. He dropped a paper sack on her lap and held the Styrofoam cup of coffee out to her.

"Your breakfast."

Her first instinct was to refuse the food in protest, but the smell of the coffee and whatever was in the bag were very enticing, and she felt her stomach growl in response. Reaching out, she accepted the cup of coffee. Inside the bag was a breakfast sandwich from a well-known fast food restaurant chain, and beneath that were a pair of hash brown potato cakes.

She withdrew the potato cakes first and took a bite out of one. It was delicious, but maybe that was because she had not eaten anything at all since breakfast the morning before. She washed it down with a sip of the coffee, the best she'd ever tasted.

Vaughn did not linger, but turned and went to one of the chairs that had been set up a short distance away. Jennings joined him with the pastries and coffee. They did not watch her as she ate, but continued their conversation, waiting for the appropriate time to make the phone call to Shane Donovan.


	40. Chapter 40

The early morning sunshine peeked through the branches and foliage on the line of trees that formed a border along the decorative wrought iron fence that surrounded the cemetery at St. Luke's. A softly swirling ground mist had settled over the lower areas during the night, reflecting the brilliance of the sunshine, and droplets of dew glistened in a silvery sheen on the grass and sparkled on the rows of marble headstones. On the main thoroughfare outside the fence, a few cars had taken to the streets as commuters drove past the cemetery's closed gate.

Normally open daily at 7:00, it was at that moment exactly four minutes past, and the cemetery gates remained closed and locked by order of the Salem Police Department. On the asphalt parking lot, a man in a business suit paced restlessly in front of the cemetery offices, eager to return to a normal day of operation.

Roman had seen the cemetery director's nervous pacing, and had assured him that they would have their business completed as soon as possible, but any interruption in the normal process was an inconvenience to clients seeking to visit the resting places of their loved ones. Turning on his heel, the director glanced at his watch, tossed a pointed glare toward the police chief, then resumed his pacing. When he reached the sidewalk at the other end, he turned again just as a car pulled up to the gate and stopped, waiting for the gate to be opened.

Frustrated, he jogged to the gate explained through the bars that the cemetery was temporarily closed. The visitor was understanding, once he knew the reason, but as the car backed out to leave, the director turned toward the police chief again, and gave a harsh scowl. Roman, his back to the gate, did not see the angry glare, and would have paid no attention to it if he had.

Breaking the peaceful silence inside the cemetery grounds, he heard the start-up ignition of heavy equipment, and knew that a backhoe was being backed out of a nearby shed, which was strategically concealed by a tall hedgerow.

Listening to the backhoe as it revved its way out of the shed, Roman stood in quiet contemplation beside one of the graves, gazing down at the gray granite marker bearing the name of his brother in law. The flowers that Kayla had placed there several days earlier were still there, glistening with dew. He knew his mother, Caroline, had placed flowers there on holidays for Kayla, but it was a place he himself had rarely visited in the years following the funeral. Thinking back to that horrible day, he vividly remembered the pain and sorrow in the sad blue eyes of his sister.

"Chief Brady?"

The voice that had spoken belonged to a boyish faced rookie from uniform division, and Roman turned to face the youthfully eager young man, expectantly. Robert L. Jones, Jonesy to his friends and coworkers, came to a stop a few yards away.

"The backhoe people say they're ready to go as soon as they get your name on the requisition," he said, gesturing toward the hedgerow.

Although he maintained a neutral expression, Roman was smiling, inwardly. The rather nervous cemetery director, anxious about the prospect of keeping the town's residents from visiting the graves of their loved ones, had insisted on getting his signature on the requisition before he would allow the exhumation to be carried out. This in spite of the court order that had already been signed by a judge. Clearly the idea of digging up a grave and opening the coffin was particularly repugnant, but signing the paper was not a problem. "Bring them over, and I'll sign the form when they get set up."

"Yes, sir," Jonesy responded promptly, then turned and sprinted back up the winding lane toward the heavy equipment shed to relay the message. As the cemetery road twisted and turned away from his destination, he cut across the grassy lawn, dodging the headstones in his path with the vitality and stamina of the young.

Roman could not suppress a wistful sigh, wishing he still possessed that degree of endurance. Enthusiastic on the job and eager to please his superiors, Jonesy did not do anything halfheartedly. Roman himself had mentioned that time was essential in completing the investigation so that the cemetery could resume normal operations, so the young officer had taken it to heart, wasting no time getting from one point to another, although, with another amused smile, Roman wondered if it would not have been faster to have simply driven his cruiser.

The backhoe shifted into idle, and the roar faded into the background as Jonesy relayed the message, allowing Roman to hear the approach of a private vehicle on the cemetery road, and he turned toward it just as Bo drew to a stop behind his brother's car, shifted into park, and opened the door. Out of habit, a custom drilled into them as children by their mother, he paused to look up and down the winding lane before crossing it, even though there was no traffic in the closed burial ground. Leaving the asphalt road, Bo stepped onto the wet grass, leaving dark footprints in the shimmering dew.

"I thought you might want to be here," Roman commented as Bo stopped beside him.

"I was surprised that you got the court order so fast," Bo said. "What did you do, drag the judge out of bed last night?"

Roman chuckled. "Even I wouldn't be that brave. I called him yesterday evening, and I have to admit he wasn't happy that I interrupted his date with his girlfriend, but after I explained what was going on, he understood the need to move quickly on this."

Bo's eyes dropped to the headstone, drawn to the name on the granite marker, and he shook his head slowly in revulsion. "That is just creepy, knowing that Steve is alive and well."

"I know; I was just thinking the same thing. Never, in a million years, did I imagine that something like this could happen."

"Makes two of us," Bo agreed. "I remember the day of the funeral. I've never seen Kayla look so devastated. So lost. I never thought Steve was a good match for her, but I admit I was wrong. She was never quite the same after losing him."

Roman nodded in agreement. "I know. I hate to admit I was wrong, too. It hurt like hell seeing her so depressed, so sad."

"So," Bo changed the subject abruptly, his voice becoming more cheerful. "What did you do to the cemetery director? He's down by the gate pacing like a caged tiger, ready to pounce on the first cop he sees."

"He's a little put-out with me over keeping the gate closed until after the exhumation takes place. He agreed to comply with the court order only because he had no choice, but he stressed that it must move along as quickly as possible. I can understand his distress, but we should be out of here pretty quick."

The roar of heavy equipment interrupted them, and they both turned toward the backhoe, which rumbled along the paved cemetery road toward them. When it reached an access point, an area where the paving had been sloped like a ramp to accommodate the equipment, it entered the grassy area and rolled slowly and carefully along the narrow path between rows of graves. It came to a halt just short of Steve's grave, and, leaving the engine running, the driver climbed down from the cab. With a clipboard in his hand, he approached the two detectives.

Roman reached for it and signed his name to the requisition form. "Thanks for getting here so quickly and on such short notice. We appreciate the promptness."

"Well, our boss, Mr. Duvall, said there may be a crime involved with one of the graves, and wanted us to get over as quickly as possible." He accepted the clipboard that Roman handed back to him, and his eyes dropped to the grave. "So, this is the one, huh?"

"That's the one," Roman confirmed.

"It isn't often that we're called to exhume a body. I've dug a lot of graves, but this is the first time I've ever been called to dug one back up. You questioning the cause of death, or something?"

"Nope. Fact is, I'm hoping to find an empty coffin."

The driver lifted his eyebrows, clearly intrigued. "No kidding? We buried an empty box?"

"No way to know until we get it back up. So, you're ready to go, then?"

"Yup. I'll get 'er into position."

The driver returned to the backhoe and climbed up into the seat. Bo and Roman started to move away from the grave to give the backhoe room to dig, but almost as an afterthought, Roman bent over and scooped up the flowers that Kayla had left, unaware that she had been decorating a grave that was not that of her husband. With the flowers in hand, he followed Bo to a nearby position beneath a maple tree, where they could watch and talk without shouting over the machinery.

The backhoe was positioned at the foot of the grave, and the driver and several of the workers stabilized the unit by cranking down the support legs, then he climbed back into the cab and took the controls. With one swipe, the backhoe peeled back a huge chunk of sod and deposited it beside the grave, then pivoted on its base and lifted out another chunk of soil. The two detectives watched with interest, noting the amount of soil that could be lifted out at one time. And near the cemetery offices, still fretting over the locked gate, the director also stopped his pacing to watch, clearly relieved that the work was progressing quickly.

"Hard to believe, the gravediggers used to do this by hand," Bo commented. "Six feet down, with nothing more than shovels and spades."

"Backbreaking work," Roman agreed, then a hand unexpectedly slapped down on his shoulder from behind, bringing him around with a start.

Shane had arrived unnoticed, apparently as curious about the result of the exhumation as the brothers. "Didn't take long to get the court order, did it?" he asked. "I figured we'd have to wait a few days, at least."

"Once I explained what was going on, the judge agreed that we should proceed as soon as possible to keep from losing the momentum. He signed the court order immediately, and I started making arrangements right away. The cemetery director brought the diggers in for us, even though it was Sunday, and even though he wasn't particularly happy about it."

"I noticed. That nervous fellow over there by the gate refused to let me in without showing him my identification."

"He doesn't have a high opinion of me right now," Roman said, and as he spoke, his eyes scanned the edges of the property, where traffic could be seen through the trees. "I'm sure Vaughn has someone keeping an eye on things," he added, shifting his attention to the cemetery's interior, half expecting to see a stranger watching from the shadow of St. Luke's or behind one of the shrubs. "If they were uncertain before that Steve is in Salem, they'll know now."

"Yes. Digging up the grave is a bit of a tip-off, isn't it?" Shane asked.

"And they'll almost certainly be combing Salem looking for him. You both already know this, but anyone going to the safe house needs to keep a sharp eye out to make sure we're not being followed."

"So," Shane said, lowering his eyes to the grave. "What do you expect to find in there?"

Roman shrugged. "I can think of several things that might be in there, but I'm holding out some hope that we'll find it empty with maybe some pertinent evidence."

Shane nodded, soberly, considering the alternative to an empty coffin. "Yeah, I know what you mean. By the way," he added, placing his hand on Bo's broad shoulder and clamping his fingers in a reproachful grip. "Thank you for letting me know that Kim and Jeannie were in town. I mean, how many chances did you have yesterday to mention it?"

"Ooops," Bo said with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that. Hope and I were talking about that before your plane landed, and then we were so startled about Steve showing up alive that it completely slipped our minds. And when I thought of it again, you had already left the safe house. We were hoping that Roman would mention it when you stopped by the office."

"Don't put that on me," Roman protested. "He dropped that bombshell about Steve on me when he came into the office, and I never gave it another thought."

"Likely stories," Shane said accusingly, but he was smiling, indicating that they were forgiven for their oversight.

"So, I take it you figured it out at some point," Bo said.

"Yes, I sort of stumbled on Kim at the park yesterday evening. That was a major surprise, I might add. I didn't expect her to be in town."

"I hope it wasn't too awkward for you."

The memory of the way his heart had leaped at the sight of her, the way he felt warmed just at the thought of her, drew him in with a pleasant sensation. "It was a little awkward at first, but we decided to go out to dinner as a family for Jeannie's sake, and I have to admit I rather enjoyed it. I think Kim did as well."

"It's always good for the kids if the parents can get along," Roman agreed.

'Yeah, that's what we both decided."

A rather ominous scraping sound reverberated throughout the cemetery as the digger bucket scraped the lid of the vault, drawing their attention back to the grave. Carefully, the operator cleared the lid of as much soil as possible, then he and the other workers secured chains to the heavy lid, which was then hoisted out of the grave and placed carefully on the ground beside the mound of excavated soil.

The officers moved closer as the cemetery workers attached chains to the casket, and a few minutes later, the familiar light colored casket came into view for the first time in a decade. It was lifted into the air, and settled gently on the grass.

The operator of the backhoe equipment shut off the engine and he and the other workers watched with intense curiosity as the three law officers approached the casket. At the gate, the director shaded his eyes from the sun, hoping that whatever they found inside would settle the matter once and for all.

Bo could not suppress a shudder of revulsion. "I never thought I'd see that again."

"Yeah," Roman agreed, grimly. "I know what you mean."

They waited while one of the workers unsealed the lid and stepped back, deferring to the law officers. Roman hesitated briefly, wondering what he would find inside. Then, drawing a deep breath, he lifted both halves of the lid and folded it back.

Everyone present experienced the flinch of an unpleasant discovery, even though they had expected what might be found inside.

The body in the casket had not been embalmed, and was therefore not in good condition, but it was clearly a man dressed in a black suit.

Repulsed, they stood silently for several moments, examining the body.

"Look at this," Roman said, pointing to a frayed round hole in the black fabric surrounded by a dried, rust colored stain.

"Poor bloke was shot," Shane said. "So, I presume this is probably the missing mortician?"

"We'll have to send him down to the morgue for an autopsy and to examine his dental records, but that would be my guess," Roman answered. "Obviously, he didn't get the sort of payoff he had expected." There was no humor in his comment, as none was intended.

"Let's see if he has any I.D.," Bo said, slipping on a pair of latex gloves. "Hey, Jonesy," he called to the boyish faced officer who had taken a position a short distance away, near enough to watch the event, but far enough back to be out of the way. It was obviously not far enough away to avoid being noticed, however. "I need you to document the things I find in his pockets."

Jonesy glanced both right and left, as if making sure it was he to whom the detective was speaking, even though he had been summoned by name. "Yes, sir," he said, his voice weak. Fumbling through the papers in his clipboard, he moved an evidence sheet to the top and walked toward the coffin. His face was paled slightly when he saw the body, and even though he was repulsed by it, it was difficult to avoid looking at it.

"Don't get sick on me, now," Bo warned, recognizing the expression.

"No, sir. I'm okay."

Carefully, Bo lifted the edges of the black suit coat and inserted his hand into the lapel pockets, trying to ignore the feel of the hard ribs beneath his hand. "Got something here," he announced as he withdrew his hand. "Five business cards for Salem Funeral Home. The name on the card is Clifford Wilkins."

"The missing mortician," Roman confirmed, holding an evidence bag open to receive the cards.

Bo dropped them in, then checked the other coat pockets, turning up only a dried stick of chewing gum, still in its wrapper.

"Nicotine," Bo said. "Looks like he was trying to quit smoking."

After dropping the gum into a separate evidence bag, he began checking the dead man's trouser pockets, then straightened up with a plain brown wallet in his hand, dried and cracked. He opened it, thumbing through the clear pockets to view the name on the driver's license and credit cards.

"Clifford Wilkins. Matches the name on the business cards." He opened the bill compartment and counted the cash. "Seventy-seven dollars: three twenties, one ten, one five, and two ones."

Jonesy wrote down the figures, and the wallet and its contents were dropped into another evidence bag. All of them were sealed and initialed, and Bo signed the evidence sheet.

"Better get a coroner's wagon out here," Bo said to the young officer, who relayed the request through his shoulder mike.

"Well," Roman said. "We'll have to get the results of the autopsy back to be certain, but I have no doubt that our DB is Mr. Wilkins, our missing mortician."

"Why did they leave the ID on him?" Jonesy asked.

"They never expected we would have any reason to dig the body up. Which means they had no intention of letting Steve Johnson go after they got whatever it is they're after. He was going to stay dead, and no one would have been the wiser."


	41. Chapter 41

Snuggled deep in the softness of the mattress, the air conditioner blowing cool air into the room through the vent above the bed, Steve enjoyed a deeper and more restful sleep than he had known in years. Gone was the constant despair that dominated every waking hour, and in its place was hope and optimism for a long future with his family.

After years of sleeping on a hard cot, it was almost disorienting to awaken on the amazing softness of a pillow-top mattress with an equally soft pillow cushioning his head. His good eye was buried in the fluffy pillow, ensuring the illusion of darkness, but the birds chirping outside the window indicated that it was daylight.

With a contented yawn, feeling wonderfully rested and refreshed, he shifted his head so that his eye was free of the pillow, and he saw that the sun was up, shining brightly between the drapes they had not closed before retiring the night before. It promised to be a beautiful day, and his heart filled with the knowledge that it would be the first full day he would spend with his family, the first day of a lifetime to be spent with Kayla and Stephanie.

Turning his attention to Kayla, he observed her sleeping beside him, the most intoxicating sight he could ever have imagined.

Automatically, his hand reached toward her, drawn to stoke her smooth cheek, but he held himself in check. Touching her would almost certainly awaken her, and she was sleeping so peacefully that he did not want to disturb her. Shifting carefully and slowly to avoid jostling the bed, he tucked his right arm under his pillow for more support and was content to simply lie there watching her. And as he watched her, he thought about the previous day and night, pondering the things she had told him once they were alone.

It had been an in-depth narrative of the events she and the rest of his family had endured during his absence. She had been especially gentle when she had explained his mother's mental breakdown that had led to the shooting death of Nick Corelli and her treatment and recovery at Bayview Sanitarium. She had been as compassionate as she could possibly be, but she was unable to shelter him from the pain the revelation brought that his mother had taken another life in an attempt to avenge his death, a death that had never occurred.

He had never thought his mother capable of killing anyone. Few people do believe their mothers capable of such crimes, but Jo Johnson had tolerated decades of abuse at the hands of her husband without a hint of ever defending herself against him. When Steve had brought that up, Kayla had explained that a mother's love for her child was far greater than her love for herself, and in that respect, it made sense that she might find a way to seek retribution, but Steve still had difficulty accepting that it could drive her to murder.

"It was a classic textbook example of temporary insanity," Kayla had told him. "I know that phrase is used as a common excuse to condone certain crimes, but in her case the abuse she suffered from Duke probably factored into it, and that, combined with her grief over losing you, was just more than she could endure."

Anger and resentment burned deep inside Steve. So much tragedy had been left in the wake of the scheme brought about by Vaughn and those he was working with. So much heartache brought to the lives of the people he cared about.

And then there was the unexpected death of his old friend, Marcus Hunter, of an aortic dissection, a condition of which he was unfamiliar, and a shocking end to the life of the apparently healthy and active man he had known.

Kayla stirred slightly, and a lock of her hair drifted across her face. Almost of its own accord, his hand moved to brush it back, and even though the gesture was feather soft, her eyelids fluttered and opened.

For a long moment, she gazed at him as if in wonder, and then reached out to touch his face to verify that he was not a figment of her imagination. He caught her hand in his and kissed it.

"Morning, sleepyhead," he said.

"You're really here," she said. "I was so afraid that I'd wake up and you'd be gone, that yesterday was just another dream."

"I'm really here, baby."

"Yes, you are," she said, her hand moving from his face to his upper arm, warm and firm beneath her fingers. "You're here, and you're alive. How long have you been awake?" she asked.

"Not very long. I've just been lying here watching you sleep, marveling at how beautiful you are."

"I don't remember a time in the last fifteen years that I've been this happy. I just don't seem to have enough room inside to hold it all!"

He chuckled. "That's corny as hell, baby."

"I know, but it's how I feel."

"I know," he admitted. "I feel the same way. All those years, locked in that basement room, longing to get out of there and make my way home. I can't believe I'm finally here, and that you're here beside me." He took her hand and pressed it to his lips again. "It finally happened."

Kayla sighed, regretfully. "So many wasted years when we should have been together planning our future and expanding our family. You know, I always wanted us to have more than just one child together."

He gently cupped her cheek in his hand. "That would have been nice, Sweetness. But I'm content. I have you and Stephanie, and we can start planning that future together. I think Stephanie is already growing fond of me. When Shane told me how old she is, I was afraid she might resist my intrusion into her life, but I think she's going to be fine with it."

"I know she is," Kayla agreed. "She was certainly having fun on that tire swing, although I think you were having even more fun than she was. The ironic thing about you coming back is that she was talking just the other day about how much she's missed having her father around."

"She did?"

"Yes, she really did, and she was very adamant about how much she missed you, even though she had never really known you. We used to watch our family videos together, and she would ask questions about you –"

"You didn't tell her the truth, did you?" he joked, lifting one eyebrow in amusement.

She laughed. "Of course, I told her the truth. I told her how wonderful you were, how compassionate you were for others –"

"Fairy tales!"

"Tell that to the kids down on the docks that wouldn't have had a Christmas if not for you and your funny Santa suit," she countered. "I remember how you used to buy toys and games and pass them out to the homeless children. You gave them a few minutes of joy, when they didn't have to think about where they were going to sleep that night or where their next meal was coming from. You gave them hope."

"Okay, I take it back. I am wonderful," he said lightly, then sobered. "I think hope is a little strong of a word to apply there, though. I gave them a diversion from reality, I guess. I don't guess you kept that old Santa suit, did you?"

"I'm not sure what happened to it," she admitted. "We can get you a new one, though." She rose up in remembrance, propping her head in her hand. "Actually, I think I might have given that suit to Marcus Hunter. I think he played Santa the year after you . . . after you were taken away from us."

"Marcus," Steve said, sadly. "My old Homey. He was my best friend at the orphanage. We were always together, sliding down the banisters, skinning our knees on the playground, and getting in trouble for sneaking out."

Kayla had heard the stories before, some of them from Steve, others were remembrances from Marcus after Steve's funeral, when both of them were struggling to deal with the loss of the man they both cared so much about. She gently pressed a comforting hand to his cheek. "He was a good friend, to both of us."

"Yeah, he was. I just can't believe he's gone. Fifteen years," he mused with a sigh of regret. "I've missed so much."

"I know, but think of how happy everyone will be when they find out you're alive, and that you've come back to us."

"I don't know, baby," he said. "They may wish I'd just stayed where I was."

"That could never happen," Kayla declared. Rising, she leaned over him so that she could kiss him.

"Mmm," he murmured, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against him. "How much longer do we have before the others start showing up?"

"They can wait," she told him with a smile.


	42. Chapter 42

"Why aren't you having breakfast with your parents?" Caroline asked as she reached for another pitcher of orange juice in the small cooler that was handily located beneath the bar.

Seated on one of the round stools, Jeannie leaned on the bar that, by law, she was not allowed to even approach at any other time of day, and in response to her grandmother's question, her eyes were drawn to the table in the corner where her parents sat across from one another, waiting for their breakfasts to be delivered by the attentive server.

"Shane came by so you could all have breakfast together as a family," Caroline continued.

"I know, but I thought they might enjoy some time alone together," Jeannie replied, then gave a happy sigh. "They look terrific together, don't they?"

Caroline poured two glasses of juice, then looked across the room at her daughter and her former son in law, who were engaged in conversation as they waited for their breakfasts to be delivered to their table. She returned the pitcher to the refrigerator, then turned back to Jeannie, understanding precisely what the teen was up to. "Honey, I know what you're thinking. Stephanie's parents are together again, and you'd like it if your parents got back together, too."

"Is that so wrong?" Jeannie challenged, her eyes flashing with youthful resentment. "It's kind of what makes Stephanie and I such good friends, you know? We both grew up without a father. It's something we have in common. Now she has her father back, and the difference between us is that her dad is going to be living with her and Aunt Kayla as a family. I never thought my Dad was dead, like she did, but even so, I've never known a time when Mom and Dad were together. I hardly ever see him because he lives so far away. I don't like to fly," she added before her grandmother could suggest it. "It makes me feel kind of woozy."

"It isn't wrong to wish things were different," Caroline said, gently, ignoring the remark about flying. She wasn't too crazy about it herself. "Or to hope that they will be. I'll agree that they do look good together, but I just don't want you to be disappointed if it doesn't work out the way you want."

Jeannie sighed, shifting her eyes back to her parents. Cathy, one of the Pub's servers, delivered the breakfast orders to Kim and Shane's table and refilled their cups. "I know, but I really miss him, and it would be nice to be able to see them both every day. I just don't understand why they split up, especially when they seem to still like each other."

"They always did like each other, but sometimes that isn't enough to keep a marriage together," Caroline said cautiously, knowing that they were approaching a delicate subject that was not her place to discuss.

"It still isn't fair."

"No, it isn't fair," Caroline agreed, sympathetically. "Children are always the ones who suffer their parents' decisions, aren't they?"

"Yeah. It really sucks."

While Caroline delivered the orange juice to a table of customers, Jeannie watched her mother and father. They seemed to be getting along, and to the 15-almost-16 year old, that was a good start.

"So, why didn't Jeannie join us?" Shane asked as he buttered his waffles, noticing that their daughter seemed to be keeping her distance, although she was watching them very intently.

"She said she got up early this morning and was too hungry to wait for breakfast, so she went ahead and ate a bowl of cereal, but said she would probably join us a little later," Kim replied.

"I guess it didn't help that I was late."

"Maybe," Kim said, quietly, recalling the times during their marriage that his work had delayed him. Obviously, nothing had changed in that regard. Shifting her attention to her daughter, who was still watching from the counter, she did not miss the little smile that played around the girl's mouth, giving her a pretty good idea of what she was up to. Since Shane was apparently clueless about the girl's motive, Kim did not enlighten him. He would figure it out on his own.

"I was wondering if maybe we could all go out to supper tonight again," he said, picking up the syrup bottle to liberally sweeten his waffles. "I really enjoyed last night."

"So did I," she agreed with a smile, pleased with his attention, but unwilling to read too much into it. Most likely, this was family time for Jeannie, nothing more. "It's good for Jeannie to have some family time with both of us."

"I couldn't agree more," he replied cheerfully, then said, "I have to apologize for being late this morning. I wanted to be there when they opened the coffin they brought out of Steve's grave."

"Oh, that's right. You mentioned yesterday that Roman was getting a court order for that. They didn't waste any time, did they?"

"Roman wants to get to the bottom of this issue as quickly as possible. The judge was very agreeable after Roman explained the situation to him."

"So, what did you find out? If I'm allowed to ask," she added.

He looked up at her for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, I doubt if it'll be kept a secret for long, if at all. We had hoped the coffin would be empty, but tragically that was not the case. There was a body inside, presumably belonging to one Clifford Wilkins."

Kim stirred a small amount of cream into her coffee, then laid the spoon aside. She gave a small nod, indicating recognition of the name. "The mortician?" she asked.

Shane nodded. "I think we all had a pretty good idea that's what we would find, but there was always the chance that they paid him off to just leave town. His co-workers thought that's exactly what happened, since his apartment had been totally cleaned out, but exactly who did the cleaning out remains to be determined."

"You're thinking the killers cleaned it out to make it appear that he'd moved on."

"And no one would be looking for him. Roman is pretty disappointed. He was hoping to track Wilkins down to question him about anything he might know regarding Steve's kidnapping."

"Someone went to a lot of trouble to set all this up. He must have known more than they wanted to risk," Kim said, quietly. "Have you talked to Steve or Kayla yet this morning?"

"No, not yet. Bo is going by a little later to tell them about finding the mortician's body. I'll need to report that to the I.S.A. offices here, and I want to keep them away from the safe house as much as possible. I'm afraid my two agents were a bit hard on Steve when we were interviewing him, perhaps even a bit brutal, so I wanted to give them a little more time as a family before I go out this afternoon."

Kim frowned her disapproval. Like her daughter, she had few kind words to say about the I.S.A. It was they who had allowed her to believe that Shane was dead, which had directly led to an unintended affair and eventually to the ultimate breakup of her marriage. "Brutal? What did they do?"

He heard the note of bitterness in her voice that she did not bother to conceal. "Their line of questioning was one that was very uncomfortable for him, involving possible torture as punishment for trying to escape. They were a bit relentless, I'm afraid."

"Well, I can't say that surprises me," she responded with the same hostility he had heard before. "I hope you put a stop to it."

He nodded. "Yes, I did. It was clear that Steve was on the verge of shutting everything down."

"I don't blame him. That isn't something a person wants broadcast to the world."

"No, it isn't," he agreed in an amiable tone, disinclined to defend the I.S.A. or justify the line of questioning.

"Was Kayla there at the time? That couldn't have been easy for her to hear."

"No, she wasn't there. That was after she had gone with Bo and Hope to the funeral home. I'm sure he'll tell her in his own way. They have a lot of catching up to do. The baby daughter he remembers is now sixteen years old. That has to be a bit of a shock to the system."

"It's terrible what they did to him," she said, shaking her head in dismay. "I can't believe anyone could be so cruel."

"Well, cruelty seems commonplace with these people. They murdered that mortician, and given more time, I think they eventually would have killed Steve."

"Once they got what they were after?"

"Yes. The only reason he's alive today is that they need the information they think he knows. And in the meantime, they tried to wear him down and break his spirit by isolating him from everything in the outside world."

"It's amazing that he could endure that for so long and come through it with no psychological problems."

"Well, he seems reasonably fit in that area, but I guess time will tell."

"Kayla will take good care of him," Kim said, confidently. "She must be ecstatic, getting the love of her life back."

Shane watched her toss back her hair, then she laid down her spoon on the tabletop and reached for her coffee. She looked beautiful, almost to the point of distraction.

Seeing her again had brought those strong feelings, long buried, back to the surface. To deny them would be untruthful, but how did she feel about him? Was it possible, or even prudent, to expect that the love they had once shared could still be there, simmering, waiting to be stoked into a flame?

"I wish Jeannie and Andrew would come visit more often. I miss having a family," he said carefully. He did not want to look like an idiot if she was not interested, but perhaps he could test the water a bit, feel her out with seemingly innocent questions.

"Well, like Jeannie said last night, it's a long flight. They do miss you, though," she added.

He looked up expectantly, wondering if she might include herself in that statement, but she did not continue. Instead, she picked up her spoon and began working on the grapefruit again. With a soft sigh, he reached for the pepper shaker, which he tapped over his eggs. The truth was, he had hoped to hear her say how much she had missed him, but he understood that was asking too much. He knew it would have to be him to break down that invisible barrier they had built between them. She would not make herself that vulnerable.

"I'm very happy to see that your family is well," he said pleasantly, still holding the pepper shaker, even though he was finished with it.

Kim smiled. "Yes, we've been fortunate with having good health. Pop has been having some issues, but they're treatable. Mom and Pop have always been fond of you, and that didn't change after . . ." Her voice trailed, and she busied herself by rearranging her napkin on her lap. "After what happened," she finished.

He fumbled the pepper shaker, then placed it on the table. "Yes, well . . . I'm very fond of them too. The whole family, in fact."

A few more moments of uncomfortable silence settled over them, then he looked toward his daughter, who was wrapping napkins around the silverware in an effort to help her grandmother. It seemed obvious that she was deliberately staying away from the table, and he wondered suddenly if she had noticed the lingering attraction between her parents. Perhaps she was trying to play matchmaker.

"They grow up so fast," Shane said, sadly, then heaved a regretful sigh. "I wish I hadn't missed so much of their lives."

"Yes, they do grow up fast," Kim agreed.

Silence settled over the table again, but it wasn't the comfortable silence they sometimes shared during their marriage, the times when words were simply not necessary to convey a thought or a sentiment. If not for the noise from the busy pub, the silence between them would have been deafening. If he was going to find out her interest, he knew he was going to have to get it out in the open and deal with whatever ramifications it presented.

After a few moments of silence, he built up the courage to lay it on the table. "Look, Kim, I want to say that -"

He was interrupted by the ring tone of his cell phone. Silently cursing the interruption, he withdrew it from his lapel pocket and looked at the incoming call to verify the identity of the called, but it merely said: UNKNOWN. That was not uncommon among I.S.A. agents who would not want their identities known should the phone fall into the wrong hands, so he could not ignore the call.

"Sorry, but I'd better take this," he said to Kim. Pressing the button with his finger, he said, "Donovan."

There was a strangely ominous pause on the other end of the line, so long that for a moment, he thought it was a dead line. But then he heard muffled sounds, the creaking of a chair as someone sifted their weight to a more comfortable position, and the rustling of clothing.

"Who is this?" he asked.

"Well, well, well, Shane Donovan," said a mockingly familiar voice from his past, one he never expected to hear again until Steve had brought his mystery to him.

"Vaughn?" Shane asked, his startled eyes darting to Kim's, who had looked up in surprise. "How did you get this number?"

"I have my methods. You should know I have ways of getting the things I need. You also know what I want. By now, I'm sure Johnson told you pretty much everything he knows, which places me in a rather precarious situation. So, I had to up the ante a bit."

"What are you talking about?" Shane asked.

"I know Johnson won't give up the goods without incentive. In short, I have someone he'll want. Tell him I have his sister, Adrienne."

Shane flinched, visibly.

"Obviously, we would rather have taken the wife to assure compliance on his part, but I know how he feels about his little sister. Tell him she's alive and unharmed, for the moment, but I cannot guarantee for how long. We'll exchange her for Johnson. I'll give you some time to speak with him and discuss it and let him think about it, but there will be no negotiation. I'm sure he'll be willing to cooperate with her life on the line. I'll call you back in . . ." He paused to glance at his watch. "I'll call you back in one hour on this line."

The call was abruptly disconnected, and Shane lowered the phone, a pensive expression on his face. Again, he looked at the caller I.D., as if hoping for a different result, but once again it failed to provide the number Vaughn had used.

"That was Agent Vaughn?" Kim asked.

"Yes. He's more determined than we thought. He kidnapped Steve's sister, Adrienne. He wants to exchange her for Steve." He slid out of the booth, his breakfast forgotten. "I have to let Steve know what's going on."

"Would you mind if I go with you?" she asked, picking up her purse.

He hesitated. "I don't know . . ."

"Moral support for my sister."

"Yes, all right. Come on."

As they started for the door, Jeannie noticed with surprise that they were leaving. Abandoning her stool, she rushed after them. "Hey, where are you two going?"

"To the safe house -" Shane began.

"Cool! I'd like to see Stephanie."

"Not this time, Jeannie," he told her sternly. "Stay here with your grandparents and do not go outside without someone with you. On second thought, don't go outside at all. I want you to stay inside."

"Why? What's going on?" she asked. "Something's happened, hasn't it?"

"We'll explain when we get back," Kim told her. "Right now, we don't have time. Do as your father says, and we'll be back later."

Jeannie stood in the middle of the room wand watched as her parents went out the door together.


	43. Chapter 43

"So, now we know what happened to the mortician," Bo Brady said in conclusion to his recap of the events at the cemetery.

Steve, sitting on the couch beside Kayla, his arms draped loosely on the sofa back behind her, reached up his other hand to rub his forehead as if to sooth the tension in his brow. "Who didn't see that coming?" he asked, quietly.

"Yeah," Bo agreed solemnly. "Roman was hoping it would be empty, but we all knew this was a strong possibility. If not a probability."

Kayla, as always, felt the loss of life in a profound way. "I know he shouldn't have gotten caught up in this mess to begin with, but it's a shame he didn't just leave town, like everyone thought. Do we know why he agreed to help those people?"

Bo shook his head. "Not yet. There are many ways to lure people into doing things they wouldn't ordinarily do. They could have offered him money, or they might have blackmailed him by digging up some dirt on him, or threatening his family, if he had one."

"I was going to ask if he had family," Kayla said.

"Hopefully, that's one of the questions we'll have answered once we arrest these guys. We'd sure like to talk to them if he does, to see if they can shed some light on his activities leading up to his disappearance."

"Where do we go from here?" Steve asked.

Bo gave a shrug, indicating that no decisions had been made. "At this point, I'm afraid we're in a holding pattern. We know so little about these people or what they're after. We know they're probably here in Salem, but we have no idea where to look for them. Except for Vaughn, we don't even know who they are. We do know that Vaughn is not the mastermind of this operation, but we don't know who this person is or specifically what it is they're after. We suspect he's working with Alamain, given the fact that a man using one of his aliases purchased your house, but how did they meet up, and what is in it for them to form this alliance?"

"Whatever it is, it must be huge," Steve said. "Otherwise, it would not have been practical for them to hold me all that time. Not that they spent that much money on me personally, but that's a long time to keep guards employed. So, this all means that my family and I are stuck here until we learn more," he concluded.

Behind him, sitting on the staircase, no one heard Stephanie's quiet sigh. She had been listening to the conversation from partway up the staircase, her forehead pressed against the decorative supports. The supports reminded her of jail bars, which seemed an irony to her youthful mind. She was old enough to understand that until the situation was resolved, she would be staying in that tiny cottage with her parents, safely tucked away from whoever the people were who had kidnapped her father, but young enough to feel resentment about the inconvenience of it.

"I'm afraid so," Bo confirmed, answering Steve's question.

Kayla, as always, tried to put on a good face. "Well, it isn't exactly how I would have planned a reunion, but at least we're all together now, and we're safe. That's the important thing."

Steve pressed his lips to the side of her head, allowing them to linger there a few moments, before withdrawing. "We'll get through it," he promised.

They heard the buzz of the intercom, announcing that it was being activated, and a moment later they heard a voice say, "Agent Donovan is at the gate. He says it's urgent."

Bo exchanged glances with Steve. "We didn't expect to hear from him until later this afternoon. Maybe he's learned something." Raising his voice, he said, "Let him in."

"I wonder what's up," Steve said as Bo went to the window and parted the drape with his hand to watch for the agent.

When Shane's rental car entered the clearing a few moments later, Bo punched the security code into the alarm, then opened the door, surprised to see someone in the passenger seat. "He has someone with him," he announced over his shoulder.

A scowl crossed Steve's brow. "Not one of those I.S.A. agents, I hope."

"No, it's Kim," he announced as the woman stepped out of the car.

"Kim?" Kayla responded, surprised, exchanging a glance with Steve, then both of them stood up to greet their guests. "What's she doing here?"

"They had dinner together last night, along with Jeannie," he told her, then fell silent as the couple approached the porch.

"What's up?" Bo asked as the Englishman and his ex-wife slipped through the door. "The guard said it was urgent."

"Complications," Shane said, glancing briefly at him before his attention went to Steve. "A major complication, I'm afraid, one that will probably change everything in the way we handle this case."

Bo secured the door behind him, and Kim went forward, with outstretched arms, to greet her brother in law. "Steve, Shane told me what happened to you. I'm so happy you've come back."

He embraced her warmly. "It's good to be back," he told her.

Releasing him, Kim hugged her sister, sharing her joy, then they and Steve sank onto the sofa again. Bo and Shane sat down in the wing chairs.

"It's bad news, isn't it?" Kayla asked, observing Shane's troubled expression. "You look worried."

Shane nodded. "It isn't something we had expected, but I suppose we should have suspected might happen. Steve, I got a call a few minutes ago from Vaughn. He says he has your sister."

Kayla felt Steve's body flinch in reaction to the news. "He has Adrienne?" he asked, hoarsely.

"He _says _he has her," Shane repeated, then glanced at his wrist watch. "He's going to call me back in about 40 minutes, and we'll ask for proof, which obviously will be a demand to speak to her. What we need to do until then is figure out how we plan to handle this."

"If he hurts her-" Steve began.

"He assured me that she's fine, but we'll get some insight into her physical and mental state when we talk to her."

"Could it be a bluff?" Bo asked.

"I think he's telling the truth," Shane admitted. "Finding out where she lives would be a simple matter for him. I was thinking about it on the way over here. The man I had watching Kayla reported that the perp who was also watching her disappeared yesterday morning and hasn't been seen since. I thought he had realized he had been spotted and abandoned his surveillance, but now I suspect he was pulled off Kayla and sent to Adrienne instead. She was an easier target because she was not being watched." He turned his attention to the one-eyed man, his expression one of regret. "I'm sorry, Steve. Because of the distance, I never considered her a target."

"If he kidnapped her that fast, they must have had a plane waiting just in case," Kayla said. "I mean, Adrienne lives in Dallas. That's not exactly a hop, skip, and a jump from here."

"That makes sense," Bo agreed. "I doubt he flew commercial, so they must have had a contingency plan already in place to avoid possible airline delays and security checkpoints. Did Vaughn make any demands when he contacted you?"

"He had only one demand," Shane said. "He wants Steve in exchange for Adrienne."

"No!" Kayla protested. "He can't have him!"

"Kayla -" Steve began, only to be cut off by his wife's objection.

"That isn't an option. We have to think of some other way!"

"Vaughn clearly thinks that Steve will react exactly as he did when Adrienne shot and killed her father. Steve, you were stubbornly determined to go to prison rather than let Adrienne be investigated, an investigation that no doubt would have exonerated her, but I have to caution you that turning yourself over to them is no guaranteed that they will free her."

Kayla placed her hand urgently on Steve's shoulder, a gesture intended to remind him of her and Stephanie. "You can't go along with their demands," she said fearfully.

A long, tense moment of silence followed her pleas, during which time all eyes fell upon Steve Johnson, remembering his habit of insisting on doing things his own way, usually as a lone maverick. Steve was looking directly at Shane, and Kayla sensed that a silent communication had passed between them, as if the time they had spent together during their departure from England and their flight had heightened their mutual respect and understanding.

"It's your call, Steve," Shane prompted. "But I think you know what the best option is."

Steve nodded, slowly. "Yeah. I've matured past the point of thinking I can handle this on my own and it turn out in a positive way. Like you said, they might not release her anyway. Obviously, we're going to have to think of a plan that will make them think I'm willing to hand myself over to them while the cops spring a trap."

Shane nodded. "I agree."

"We can't risk Adrienne, though," he cautioned. "They must absolutely believe that I'm agreeing to their terms."

"Bait?" Kayla asked, horrified. "You're going to use yourself as bait? What if-" She almost gulped at the thought. "I just got you back. What is something goes wrong?"

"That's why we're going to plan this very carefully," Shane told her. "First and foremost, agreeing to the exchange buys us some time. When Vaughn calls back, we must have an answer for him. We'll have to negotiate a time and a place, and with any luck, we'll be able to get some security measures in place."

"And won't they be doing exactly the same thing?" Kayla challenged.

Shane nodded. "Yes, I'm sure they will. I called Roman on the way over here and apprized him of the situation. He's on his way now, and should be here before the call comes in. We're going to do everything possible to protect Steve, I assure you."

Kayla understood, but was not comforted by his assurances. "There's no way to guarantee that everything will go as planned. I couldn't bear losing you again."

"I know, baby," Steve said affectionately. "Shane really saved my bacon back in England. I had no one else to turn to, but he came through for me, even risking himself to get me home. He's earned my trust."

Kayla recognized the significance of that. Steve did not bestow his trust casually on anyone. It was awarded slowly, with great caution. Her eyes sought out her former brother in law, who watched somberly, also understanding the value of Steve's comment, and she felt compelled to explain her concern. "I trust him too. It's Vaughn and his men that I don't trust. I remember what he did to Marlena."

"He didn't hurt her," Shane reminded her. "He just used her to force Roman to go to Stockholm after the bonds. For what it's worth, I don't think Vaughn was involved in the killing of that mortician. He's a bitter, angry man, but he has never been a murderer."

"You don't know that for certain," Kayla insisted. "Desperate people are capable of desperate things. After all those years in prison, there's no telling what he's capable of. You don't know who murdered that mortician."

"I know, but I'm pretty sure it was probably one of Alamain's people. We know that family is not above murder to get what they want, and they're certainly capable of killing someone to keep him silent." He glanced pointedly at his watch, indicating that time was passing, and they must have a plan in motion before the phone call came in.

Kim noticed the gesture and recognized her ex-husband's frustration in using valuble time to reassure Kayla. She placed an arm around her sister's shoulder. "Tell you what. Why don't you and I go make some coffee? This looks like it's going to be a pretty intense meeting, and I'm sure everyone could use it."

"That's a wonderful idea," Shane said, looking at his ex-wife with a mixture of gratitude and admiration for her perception. Kayla's objections were made out of her strong emotions on the subject, and it would be easier to discuss the details if she was not in the room.

Kayla looked from Kim to Shane, and was not fooled for a moment. "I know what you're trying to do," she accused, resentfully. "I have a vested interest in this!"

"Please, Kay," Kim prodded, gently, reaching out to take her sister's hand as she stood up. "I'm not trying to undermine your concern for what is happening here, but I think you and I can help more by getting out of the way for a while."

Kayla's first instinct was to resist, but Kim maintained a firm hold on her hand.

"We'll just be in the next room," Kim urged.

Reluctantly, she submitted to her sister's tug on her hand, and the two women went into the kitchen.

"I was not being unreasonable," Kayla said defiantly as she removed the coffee container from the cupboard and thumped it down on the counter top with more force than necessary.

"No one said you were unreasonable," Kim said soothingly, hoping to calm her down. "All of your concerns are valid, and you have every right to be worried. He's your husband, and a terrible injustice was done to him and to his family, but I think we just need to give them a little space and let them work out some details before Vaughn calls back." She gave a disbelieving shake of her head. "Who would have ever thought we would be dealing with Vaughn again."

"I don't care about him. I only care about what they're planning to do with Steve."

"I know, but they need everything to be prepared before they put Steve into a position that could be dangerous."

"I don't like the idea of putting him in danger in the first place," Kayla said. "And I know Adrienne won't like it either." She reached for the coffee pot, and gripped the handle tightly in her hand. "Damn them for everything they've done to us. Damn them all to hell!" The strength of the outburst was unusual for the typically mild mannered Kayla.

"I think I'd better take that," Kim said, grasping the delicate glass pot and carefully removing it from her sister's hand. "You just sit down over there, and let me make the coffee."

"Maybe you're right," Kayla agreed. Retreating to the table, she sat down and watched while her older sister made the coffee.

Several moments of uncomfortable silence passed as Kim made the coffee. Kayla calmed herself by pondering the unexpected fact that Kim had accompanied Shane to the safe house.

"So, is something going on with you and Shane?" she asked, breaking the silence

Kim's hesitation was brief, almost imperceptible, but Kayla noticed it. "I'm not really sure anything is going on. We got together for supper with Jeannie as a family last night, and I think we all had a good time, but that's all it was. We met for breakfast for the same reason, and he did suggest we do it again tonight, but . . ." Her voice trailed, and she gave a shrug, unwilling to read more into his attention than a favor for their daughter.

"Sounds to me like he may be testing the water," Kayla suggested.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Kim said with a rather embarrassed smile. "He's missed so much of Jeannie's life. I think he just wants to give her some special family time while we're all in town together." When she finished getting the coffee started, she pulled out a chair and sat down across from her sister. "I'm really happy that you and Steve are getting a second chance, but I'm not sure it'll happen with Shane and me."

As Kayla observed her sister's expression, she suspected that Kim wanted to talk about it, but was uncertain how or where to being. "How would you feel if it did?" she prompted.

The question seemed to catch Kim off guard, and she reached for the salt shaker on the center of the table just to have something in her hand, to have something to look at besides her sister's face, as if fearful that Kayla might see into her heart. "I don't know," she admitted with a shrug. "We had some really great times together, but we had some really bad times too, especially at the last. After Jeannie was born and we learned that Shane really was the father, I hoped maybe we might work things out, but it just didn't happen. Shane was hurt, I was hurt. It just wasn't there anymore." She sighed with bitter regret. "I should have used more restraint where Cal was concerned."

"You were vulnerable," Kayla reminded her. "You thought Shane was dead. I, of all people, can understand the pain of that."

"Yeah, but . . . . Shane saw us, you know? Cal and me. I feel mortified just thinking about that." After a moment or contemplative silence, she said, "I think my past will always be a stumbling block for us. The thought that Jeannie might not be his was just too much, especially when the same thing happened with Andrew. What he must think of me. I can't really blame him for giving up on me. I used some really bad judgment at some very important times. He's being more civil to me than I really deserve."

"It's obvious he still cares," Kayla pointed out. "Even Steve mentioned it."

Kim looked up, and Kayla saw a glimmer of something that might have been hope or interest in her eyes. Then it faded. "I'm sure he's just being polite. You know Shane. I am enjoying his being here, and if he's interested in going out and seeing how things are, testing the water as you put it, I might be open to that. But I'm not going to set myself up for disappointment."

Kayla's expression was sympathetic and understanding. "You still love him, don't you?"

Kim seemed reluctant to admit it, but her avoidance of a definitive answer was confirmation enough. "It's been too many years to get my hopes up, you know? It's up to him to make the first move, and even if he does, I'm not going to read too much into it."

"I can understand that," Kayla said, backing away from the questions. She was known as being relentlessly pushy when she was passionate on a particular topic, but she did not want to badger her sister. " I think it's great that you and Shane can get along well. It's good for the kids when both parents are civil."

"Yeah, it is."

Before they could say any more, the buzz of the intercom preceded the announcement of another visitor, and both women automatically turned toward it.

"Must be Roman," Kayla said. Irresistibly drawn back to the crisis at hand, she stood up and found a serving tray in the cupboard. "The coffee's ready," she noted, glancing at the full pot. "If you'll take that, I'll get the mugs."

After placing the mugs on the tray, Kayla returned to the front room. Kim followed with the coffee pot.


	44. Chapter 44

Bo opened the door to admit his tall, lean older brother and was not surprised when a young man carrying several pieces of electronic equipment stepped inside behind him.

"Good to see you, Bro," Bo said in greeting as he closed and locked the door behind him.

"We got here as soon as we could," Roman said, taking charge of the situation with the calm confidence of a seasoned officer and team leader. "Has he called back yet?"

"Not yet," Shane replied.

"Good. I suspect he wants to let Steve stew about it for a while before he calls us back," Roman said. "The probability that he'll be using a cell phone makes calls like this more difficult to trace to an exact address, but we did bring along a recording device so we can examine the call later and see if it will give us any clues."

"How will that help?" Kim asked, curiously as she poured coffee into the mugs on the tray that Kayla had placed on the coffee table. The men immediately started reaching for them, except for the young technician, who had knelt in front of the coffee table and was already setting up his equipment.

"We've solved cases before by identifying certain background sounds, such as train crossings, airplane traffic, even a school recess bell one time," Roman explained. "That time, the guy we were after lived across the street from an elementary school."

"It's often a very effective method of recovering kidnap victims," the tech said. "One of the many techniques and resources we utilize to solve crimes."

"What if he makes the call from some other location?" Kayla asked.

"He won't," Roman said, confidently. "He knows we won't negotiate until we speak with Adrienne, and they won't risk moving her from their controlled environment. Wherever they're holding her, that's where they'll be making the call. Shane, since he'll be calling you, we'll need your phone."

Shane turned his phone over to the technician, who began attaching the recording device to it. "Keep him on the phone as long as possible," the tech suggested. "The longer he's on the line, the more information we'll able to pick up in the background. We're also going to try to triangulate the call to find out which cell tower is being used."

"And putting a speaker on the phone, so we can all hear what he has to say," Roman added.

"Will he be able to detect any of the things you're attaching to the phone?" Steve asked, concerned about how Vaughn would react to them.

"No, they're completely undetectable," Roman assured him.

"He's smart, though," Shane pointed out. "He knows that with the time he's provided, we'll be using technology to pinpoint his position." In response to Steve's worried expression, he added, "Don't worry, Steve. I assure you, he's expecting it."

Shane's cell phone rang, a little earlier than promised, and the technician was so startled by the unexpected sound that he nearly dropped it. After fumbling it, juggling it, and finally catching it on the fly, he passed it to Shane with an embarrassed expression.

"We're ready. Keep him talking as long as possible, but be careful what you say when you speak to the victim. He may be listening in as well."

Shane flipped open the phone and lifted it to his ear. "Vaughn?"

"Are you with Johnson?" Vaughn asked in a stern, commanding voice that filled the room and generated reactions of distaste from the people who remembered him. Roman could not suppress his resentment of the man who had kidnapped his wife, and he clenched his fist, unaware of the gesture.

"I am," Shane replied.

"Excellent. Put him on."

"Not so fast. We have a few things to talk about first."

"Let's not get into stalling tactics, Shane," Vaughn warned. "I know Roman is making efforts to trace this call through the cell towers and whatever other means that might be available to him. Obviously, I intend to move this call along as rapidly as possible so let's get down to business, shall we?"

"You're making quite a career of kidnapping, aren't you?" Shane taunted.

There was a smile in Vaughn's reply, "Obviously you refer to Marlena Brady. Roman just needed a bit of encouragement in seeking out the bonds he had hidden in Stockholm. I'm sure you will recall that she was safe and sound, as Mrs. Kiriakis is, although her accommodations are not quite so luxurious. She will be released once Steve Johnson has been delivered into my hands."

"Before we allow Steve to turn himself over to you, we need proof that you have her and assurances that she is alive and well. We will agree to no deals until we are guaranteed that she has not been harmed."

"She's my ace in the hole, Shane," Vaughn said pleasant, as if they were merely conversing. "The winning hand is played very carefully. However, I am a reasonable man. In your place, I would want assurances as well, and I am prepared to offer them."

As he spoke, Vaughn had made his way to the old sofa where Adrienne sat, her head tilted back, watching as he conversed with Shane Donovan. As she listened, her mind was active with urgent thoughts. She remembered the pleasant Englishman who had been married to Kayla's sister. Although she had not known him well, she knew he would not be fooled by someone claiming to be Steve. He knew what Steve looked like and sounded like. She could arrive at only two conclusions: either Steve really was alive as her kidnapper claimed, or Shane Donovan and his people were trying to trick those criminals into believing the man in question was Steve.

Momentarily, Vaughn would hand her the phone, and she would know. If this _was_ Steve, she would know his voice when she heard it. And if it really was him, she knew she must provide a clue that would lead them to her, thereby taking control from her kidnappers. She could not allow him to exchange himself for her, an act she knew he might be tempted to do.

During her breakfast, she had finally figured out the purpose for the warehouse, the big reveal coming in the form of a coupon for a free cherry turnover found in the bottom of the sack. With a little luck, Steve might remember it too, provided she could slip a subtle hint into her conversation with him. She could only hope that Vaughn was not aware of the warehouse's history.

Unaware of the scheme that his captive had put together, Vaughn gave her a sly smile as he said to Shane, "Would you care to speak to her?"

"Absolutely. Put her on."

"All right," Vaughn said. "Remember I'm standing right here, and I won't hesitate to terminate the call if either of you say anything out of line. It won't go well for her if I have to do that."

Shane answered affirmatively, and Vaughn held the phone out to her.

"You heard what I just said," he warned.

She nodded and reached for the phone, her fingers closing around it, but he did not release it to her just yet, a silent reminder that he would be listening. "Can I ask Steve a question? A question he'll remember? I have to know for sure that it's him."

His eyes seemed amused. "You don't believe me?"

"I saw his dead body," she replied. "And I know some people have a talent for sounding like other people."

His lips twitched, as if suppressing a smile. "I never had the pleasure of seeing his dead body, although I must say we did an outstanding job making him appear so, didn't we?" he asked in a taunting voice, then before she could respond, he continued, "Very well. Ask your question."

He released the phone, apparently confident that she had no clue where she was being held, and she lifted it to her ear. "Hello?" she asked, her voice hesitant and nervous, wondering what she would hear on the other end.

Steve was still seated beside Kayla, his body pressed close to hers, and at his sister's first tentative word, she felt him flinch. "It's her," he confirmed in response to Shane's questioning glance. Kayla nodded in agreement.

"Adrienne Kiriakis?" Shane said into the phone.

"Yes."

"This is Shane Donovan."

"Yes, I remember you."

"Are you all right? Are you being treated well?"

"Um, y-yes," she replied hesitantly, her voice strangely preoccupied. "They haven't hurt me."

Shane knew that she was too intimidated to say otherwise, even if she was not being treated well. "Adrienne," he said in a calm voice, hoping it would help to calm her as well. "I'm here with your brother, Steve. He very much wants to talk to you."

Steve was at Shane's side in an instant, reaching for the phone, which Shane relinquished to him.

He took the small, uncomfortable device in his hand and lifted it to his ear. "Adrienne? Baby, are you alright?"

She fought the tears that threatened to flow, positive that it really was Steve, but she could not let on that she knew for sure. She had a role to play, and she had to be careful. "You sound like my brother!" she said, keeping her voice steady, trying to appear unconvinced.

"It is me, baby," he assured her.

"I have to be sure," she told him. "I know there are people who are good at mimicking other people's voices, and I have to know for sure that you're really Steve. Do you remember after I first came to Salem?"

Perplexed by her apparent reluctance to accept that he was truly who he said he was, he offered more detail into his identity. "I remember," he replied. "You looked like Momma did when she was younger, and you really had me spooked. You wore a bracelet that matched Momma's necklace, the one I gave to Kayla. I thought I was being stalked by a ghost or something."

She heard the bewildered quality to his voice, and knew that he was confused. Praying silently that he would not give away her clue, she forged on. "Yes, but after we started getting close, remember when you and I made that cherry pie for Momma? We were looking at the can of cherries, and we noticed that it had been canned right here in Salem! Remember that? You and I were the only ones there; only my brother would know about it. It was a surprise for Momma. Do you remember?" she asked again, silently willing him to understand, and to answer appropriately. Deliberately, she avoided looking at Vaughn, fearful that he would see it in her face.

Mystified by the question, Steve looked at Shane and shrugged, shaking his head to indicate that the event never happened. Roman and Bo exchanged puzzled glances. Kimberly, however, seemed to understand it, and gestured quickly for Steve to answer in a positive manner.

Adrienne listened to the silence on the other end of the phone and knew that Steve was struggling to understand what she was doing. _Please say you remember, _she begged silently, hoping that Vaughn did not know the building's glorious past. He had not moved, had not snatched the phone from her hand, and it offered hope that he was unaware that it had once been a fruit packing plant.

"I remember, baby," Steve said into the phone, then added, "That was a long time ago."

She wondered if he was starting to catch on. "Do you remember what the special occasion was?"

He hesitated, glancing at Kim again for suggestions. "Mother's Day", she whispered.

"It was for Mother's Day," Steve said. "Cherry pie is her favorite, and it was a special present for Momma Jo from her two kids."

"Yes!" she exclaimed, the tears flowing again. He understood! "It was for Mother's Day! Oh, Steve," she said, the emotion in her voice indication that she was trying unsuccessfully not to weep. "I never thought I'd hear your voice again!"

"I know, baby. Just know that I didn't leave any of you on purpose. Those bastards took me against my will, and –"

The phone was snatched from her hand, and she reached for it, wanting to take it back, to hear her brother's voice again, this time without having to play the charade. "No! Please, I wasn't finished!"

Vaughn was not moved by her pleas. "You are, for now. With any luck, if he follows directions, you'll get to speak to him again. All right, Johnson," Vaughn's voice came back on the line, and Steve realized that he had taken the phone away from her.

"Put her back on!" he demanded, outraged that they had been interrupted.

"You've spoken to your sister; you know she's alive and well, and she's verified that it really is you after revealing that charming little Mother's Day gift. Now it's time to decide what we're going to do. You know what we want. You for your sister."

He heard Adrienne shouting in the background: "No! Don't do it, Steve!" Her voice was suddenly muffled, and he knew that someone had placed a hand over her mouth to prevent her from speaking further.

Steve was shaking with anger and frustration and his inability to protect her. "If you hurt her, I swear –"

"You're in no position to make threats, Steve. You know what we want. I'm prudent enough to know that with your escape, things have changed, but I am still in control. We can end this right now, and you can have a happy little reunion with your sister. Tell me what I want to know, and once I have the goods and am safely out of Salem, Mrs. Kiriakis will be released unharmed."

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Steve raged. "I don't know what it is you want from me!"

"Come now, Steve. You don't expect us to believe that, do you?"

"It's true!" he insisted. "I can't tell you what I don't know!"

"You're lying! Give it up, Steve. We'll pick up the items, and then I'll call you to tell you where you can find your sister."

Roman made a sudden gesture to get Steve's attention. "Tell him you'll reveal everything they want to know, but not until you get to see Adrienne, face to face," he said quietly.

Steve started to protest that he didn't know what they wanted, but then he caught on to Roman's intention; it was a bluff to force a meeting. A meeting that might culminate into a rescue.

"Time is wasting, Steve," Vaughn said. "I know your friends are probably trying to triangulate this call, and obviously I can't let them do that, so we need to make a decision quickly. How much do you value your sister?"

Steve sighed heavily, as if giving in. "All right, damn it. I'll tell you what you want to know, but not until I see my sister face to face."

"I cannot agree to that," Vaughn said. "You will tell us now, and you'll make certain there are no cops at that location. Then, and only then, will we release her to a specified location which will be revealed after we have the goods and once we are safely away from Salem."

"I can't describe it to you," Steve said. "There is an intricate way of getting into the secret tunnels, and it's been a long time since I've done it. Everything has to be done in a specific order. I'll have to do it myself."

"Tunnels. . . " Vaughn whispered, eagerly taking the bait like a dehydrated man reaches for a bottle of cold water. He fell silent then for a long time, mulling this over, apparently forgetting his own need to end the call quickly.

Roman nodded his approval and gave the thumbs up sign that he was doing well.

Steve waited nervously, very aware that his reliance on the Salem Police could prove detrimental to his sister. Breaking the intense silence, he said, "I'm willing to show you the access to the tunnels, Vaughn, but the only way I can do it is to show you in person. Meet me somewhere, someplace out in the open, and we'll talk."

After the initial elation, Vaughn was clearly becoming suspicious. "We've been all through that house, and we never found any evidence of tunnels."

"The entrance is well concealed and impossible to find. If you don't know where it is, you'll never find it. And as I said, the access mechanism must be opened in a particular order."

"All right, here's what we're going to do," Vaughn said. "I'm going to arrange a series of locations, each one with a note telling you where to go next. At each of these locations, I'll have someone watching to make sure you're alone. I'll call you back at noon with the first location."

Before he could respond, a harsh "click" in his ear told him that Vaughn had hung up. Clearly agitated and frustrated, Steve lowered the diminutive phone from his ear and turned to look at Roman with an accusing stare, clearly dissatisfied with the result of the call. For a long, tense moment, no one said anything, each of them understanding that the situation had just taken a drastic turn for the worse.

"I don't like this," Bo said, breaking the silence. "We lose control if we let him play this game of note-tag."

"I don't like it, either," Kayla agreed. "There are too many things that can go wrong."

"I don't see that we have much choice," Roman said. "Obviously the call did not go according to plan, but we may be able to salvage it. He's stalling. Steve has given him something to think about, and while he's thinking, we'll be planning."

"What do you want to do?" Bo asked.

"We can set Steve up with a mike and a tracking device. That way we'll know where he is at all times, and we'll be close by without being seen by them." He glanced at Steve. "Are you agreeable?"

"I'll do whatever it takes to get her back," Steve declared.

"I'll request the tracking equipment."

Kim had been trying to get their attention, and in the brief lull that followed, she announced, "I don't think you're going to need to do that."

Roman gave her an impatient glance. "What are you talking about?"

"Some cop you are!" she teased. "Don't you remember what Adrienne said about the pie filling?"

"What was that about, anyway?" Kayla asked, turning to Steve. "I don't remember you mentioning anything about that."

Steve shook his head, bewildered. "That's because it never happened. I have no idea what she was talking about."

"You covered your confusion well," Kim said. "Especially when you mentioned that it had been a long time ago. If they were listening to her conversation with you, I doubt they would have been able to tell that you didn't understand."

"You seem to be the only one in the room with any idea of what she was referring to," Kayla said. "What did a cherry pie or even Mother's Day have to do with making sure she was talking to Steve? Especially when she must have known he would not understand what she was talking about."

"It had nothing to do with the pie or Mother's Day," Kim told her. "It was all about the packaging of the cherries. Don't you remember how she said the cherry filling was packaged at a plant in Salem?"

Roman's body flinched visibly as her meaning suddenly became clear to him. "The old fruit plant! You're right!"

"What are you talking about?" Shane asked, totally bewildered.

"She was giving us a clue about where she is!" Kim replied, her eyes shining with excitement and praise of Adrienne's cleverness. Looking at Kayla and Bo, she asked, "Don't either of you remember it? We were taken on field trips to that plant when we were in grade school! They even gave everyone little cherry pies to take with us. They were no bigger than a golf ball, but they were delicious. Everyone loved those field trips."

"I do remember that!" Kayla exclaimed. "Wow, that was a long time ago. I haven't thought about that in a long time. By the time the school bus got back to the school, all the kids had cherries all over their hands and faces. That plant was an important part of Salem's economy back then."

"Up until about ten years ago, all the fruit that was grown in the area was packaged for distribution at a local packaging center that was out near the interstate," Bo explained. "It was a huge operation, and like Kayla said, it was great for the Salem economy. A lot of apples, cherries, plums, peaches, and pears were grown around these parts and taken to the plant to be turned into various pie fillings and other products, like apple sauce and jam, which were then shipped out all over the Midwest. The name of the company that sold the cherry pie filling was _Mother's Finest_. The plant was abandoned after the center was relocated to another city. There were a lot of Salem residents who suddenly found themselves unemployed."

"Your sister must have remembered," Kim said to Steve. "She knew if she gave us an obscure clue without tipping off her captors, one of us might remember it."

"Well, she's always been pretty smart," Kayla said with a smile.

.

"That coincides with the cell phone tower he used," the technician confirmed, observing a map on his computer screen.

"That's it, then," Bo said. Good job, Sis!"


	45. Chapter 45

A/N: Remember, this is an alternate universe, so going forward, there may be some things that do not line up exactly with canon. Also, my 96 year old mom is in poor health and taking quite a lot of my time lately, so be patient. I will finish this story, but there may sometimes be a few weeks between postings.

* * *

"We need to call Justin," Kayla said, interrupting the wave of excitement that had swept the room as Roman began to make plans for the rescue. Her suggestion brought the faces of everyone present toward her, and the sudden unease was immediately palpable. S Kayla felt a surge of annoyance. "He and Jo must be frantic with worry. It's certain they know by now that she's been kidnapped, and they're probably waiting for word from her kidnappers." She placed her hand on Steve's arm. "And they also need to know about Steve."

"I don't know, sis," Roman objected, warily. "I know he's her husband and I have nothing against him personally, but I don't like the idea of the Kiriakis family being involved in this."

"They already are involved," Kayla pointed out. "Justin's wife has been kidnapped!"

"I know that, but if we notify him, he may in turn notify Victor, and we know that his uncle Vic does not play by anyone's rules except his own. Victor's involvement could jeopardize our plans, not to mention Adrienne's life."

"Then make sure he understands the consequences of telling Victor. He knows how Victor operates, and I don't think he's going to do anything that will put Adrienne's life in danger. Roman, how would you feel if you'd been left out of th e loop when Marlena was kidnapped?"

Roman did not appreciate the comparison. "That isn't fair, Kayla. No one in our family history has a history that will even compare with Victor's total disregard for the law."

"Justin isn't like his uncle," Kayla insisted.

"I have to agree with Kayla," Kim said. "Justin is her husband, and it isn't right to keep this from him. And we can't forget about her mother. Steve's mother."

"We're not going to keep either of them in the dark. With a bit of luck, we'll have Adrienne back in a few hours, and then we'll give them a call."

"I don't think we should wait on this," Steve spoke up. He had been quietly listening to the arguments for and against before offering his own comments. "None of us are fans of the Kiriakis family. Victor has been directly responsible for hurting every single person in this room in one way or another, and I don't want him involved in this any more than you do, Roman, but Justin came through for me in a very big way when I was accused of trying to murder Harper Devereaux. I owe him that much, and I have more at stake in this than the rest of you! If you won't call him, I will."

Given Steve's history with Victor Kiriakis, Roman had clearly expected his support in withholding the information from that family. "Looks like I have a mutiny here," he commented with little humor. "What do you say, Bo? He's your cousin. Will he keep his silence to Victor?"

Bo lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "No idea, but I've always liked him. He seems a reasonable man. You are right to worry about Victor interfering if he finds out, but I think I can persuade Justin to let us handle it. But frankly, I don't think Justin is going to want Victor's heavy handed tactics involved in this any more than we do. There is more to consider here, though. The Dallas police are following protocol and using resources that are not going to yield results for the simple fact that Adrienne is up here. They need to know that we're handling this on our end."

Confronted with the efforts of another city's police department to recover a kidnap victim who was no longer in their jurisdiction, Roman gave a reluctant sigh. "You're right. The Dallas PD needs to be notified. I'll handle that end of it. You can deal with Justin. Just make sure he understands that interference from either him or Victor will not be tolerated." With his cell phone, he withdrew to the other side of the room where the conversation among his relatives would not disturb his call to Dallas.

"Thanks, Bo," Kayla said. She had reached into her purse and withdrawn her cell phone. "Do you want me to call him?"

"No," Bo replied. "This is police business, so I'll talk to him. I don't have his number programmed into my phone, though."

"I do."

"Okay. If you'll find the number for me, I'll talk to him."

"Sure." Kayla scrolled down her contact list, and pressed the call button. "It's dialing," she said as she passed the phone to her younger half-brother. "He's going to see the caller I.D. and think it's me calling."

Bo nodded, and sure enough, when Justin answered, he said, "Kayla?" His voice sounded strained and rushed, and Bo knew he wanted to keep the line open in case Adrienne's kidnappers called.

"No, Justin, it's Bo," he responded. "I'm using her phone."

"Bo?" Justin said, surprised. "It's great to hear from you, but can I call you back? I'm expecting a very important call on this phone."

"I know about Adrienne," Bo told him. "That's why I'm calling. The kidnappers are not going to be contacting you."

Bo's statement was followed by a long moment of silence, and Bo could almost see the puzzled expression that must have crossed Justin's handsome face. "How do you know that? Did the Dallas police notify you?"

"No, actually we have some news for you about that. The people who kidnapped her brought her up here to Salem."

Justin understood then that they had made contact not with him, the husband, but the police in Salem. "Wait a minute. To Salem? You know this for fact? You've talked to them?"

"Yes. This isn't about you or extortion, which I'm assuming you probably believed was the motive for her kidnapping."

"I'm listening," Justin said when Bo paused. "If they're not after money, then what is this about?"

"It's a long story that spans nearly sixteen years, but the short version is that she was kidnapped in an effort to bring someone she loves out in the open," Bo said carefully. "A lot has happened here in the last 24 hours and I don't have time to go about this in a more delicate way, so I'm just going to say it. This is about Adrienne's brother, Steve Johnson. He didn't die as we all thought. Instead, he's been held captive all this time, but managed to escape a week or so ago. They know that the surest way to convince him to surrender to them is to kidnap someone he loves and offer her in exchange. They tried first with Kayla, but we found out about it and thwarted the attempt before it could be successful. Apparently, Adrienne was their backup plan. I'm afraid we never considered her because of the distance."

This news was met with a long moment of stunned silence before Justin asked, "You're telling me that Steve is alive? I don't understand. How can that be?"

"We're sorting through all that right now and we don't have all the answers to this puzzle yet, but the reason I'm calling is that I wanted you to know that they allowed us to speak to Adrienne. She's all right."

Justin heaved a deep exhale of relief. "Thank God. We found her car abandoned, but there was no indication of what happened to her, except that the evidence at the scene indicated that she had most likely been kidnapped. Like you said, I thought it was an extortion attempt. I never imagined they would have reason to take her back to Salem."

"Roman is on the phone right now with the Dallas P.D. to let them know what's going on, but Steve and Kayla thought that you and Mrs. Johnson should be told by a member of the family. Also, hearing that Steve is alive will be easier on Mrs. Johnson if it comes from you rather than from a police officer."

"You're absolutely certain he's alive?" Justin asked, still skeptical. "I wouldn't want to tell her that only to find out later that it was a hoax."

"It's absolutely true, Justin. He's here with me right now."

Justin was quiet for a moment, but accepted his cousin's words as fact. "Why did they do this? How could this happen?"

"It's an ongoing investigation, but it seems to be related to something in the house where Steve and Kayla were living before the explosion. Apparently, they think Steve is the key to whatever it is they're looking for. We're currently working on a plan to get Adrienne back, but Justin, I need to ask you not to tell Victor about this, or anyone else for that matter, who might jeopardize the operation and put Adrienne's life at risk. She's their only bargaining chip to get the information they think Steve has, so they know they'll need to keep her alive and well cared for, but we don't want any outside influences causing problems that might take away our advantage in that respect."

"I understand," Justin said promptly. "I won't tell Victor, but I'm going to fly up there. I can't just sit down here and wait around for word. I can be there in a couple of hours."

"I figured you probably would," Bo said. "Let me know your flight number, and I'll have someone pick you up."

"I'll call you back with the details," Justin said, then disconnected the call.

His first course of action was to call his favorite private airline and charter an immediate flight to Salem. Unlike his Uncle Victor, Justin had never seen the need to keep a personal jet standing by. He did not travel often enough to justify the cost, so he had become a sought-after customer of several Dallas area charter lines, and they were willing to bend over backwards to secure his business.

Next, he packed a bag with several changes of clothes for himself and for Adrienne when they managed to get her back, and tossed it into the trunk of his car.

Then, he faced the most difficult task of all: informing Jo Johnson that her kidnapped daughter was being offered in exchange for the son she and everyone else had believed dead for the last 10 years. He also knew her well enough to know that she would probably want to make the trip with him back to Salem.

* * *

Jo Johnson dealt with the stress of Adrienne's disappearance in the way she had always dealt with stress – keeping her hands busy by cleaning her condo. With a dust rag in hand, she moved from room to room, lifting objects from the pieces of furniture to dust under and around them, then dusted and straightened the pictures on the walls, washed the sinks and the tub, and moped the kitchen floor. She wanted to bring out the vacuum cleaner on the living room carpet, but feared the noise it made would prevent her from hearing the telephone if Justin called, so she left it in the closet.

While she worked, she cast frequent glances at the telephone, silently willing it to ring, so the knock on the door was so abrupt and so unexpected that she dropped the dust rag as she spun around to face the ornate entrance to her condo.

Knowing it was Justin, or perhaps the police there to deliver the worst possible news, she crept hesitantly to it and opened it, her eyes large with the dread of what might be waiting for her on the other side.

It was Justin, looking harried and rushed, and there was something in his posture and expression that told her he had news.

Without speaking, he stepped inside, and she closed the door behind him.

"Well?" she asked in a hoarse, strained voice. "Has there been any word? You've heard something, haven't you? Is she okay?"

He nodded and raised his hands, beckoning her to silence. "I have confirmation that she has indeed been kidnapped, but I also have assurances from a very reliable source that she is alive and well, and that she will be well treated until the situation is resolved," he told her, making certain she had that to hold on to before continuing.

"Okay, that's good, isn't it? She's alive and that's the important thing. What are their demands? What is it they want? Money?"

"No, they don't want money." Taking her by the hand, he led her to the sofa. "Let's sit down," he suggested.

"There's more, isn't there?" she asked when they were both seated.

"There is definitely more," he confirmed with an incredulous shake of his head. "The problem is where to begin." He placed his hand over hers, then looked toward the blue sky on the other side of the sliding glass door that led onto the balcony, trying to find an easy way to break the news. "This is hard to explain when I really don't understand it myself."

"Something terrible has happened, hasn't it?" she interrupted, misconstruing his inability to find the right words.

His eyes darted back to her face, to her eyes, which were wide with alarm. "No! No, quite the opposite, in fact. It's very good news. It's just going to come as a huge shock, and I wanted to cushion it as much as I can."

"Why don't you just say it?" she suggested. "You don't need to protect me, Justin. I'm a big girl."

He smiled. "You're a strong woman, that's true, and you've been as much a mother to me as you have to Adrienne, but this is something unique, totally unexpected."

"I've lost one son, and the other is a long way from me, so it's only natural for me to love you as a son."

"That's just it, Jo. That's what I'm trying to tell you. You haven't lost a son at all. We only thought you had." Sensing that she was about to object, he raised his hand, urging her to remain silent. "Please, let me finish. You remember Bo Brady?"

"Kayla's brother."

"You also know he's my cousin through Victor. Bo just called me a short time ago to explain that Adrienne was flown to Salem by her kidnappers. He also told me WHY she was kidnapped. This isn't to extort money from the Kiriakis name, like I had originally thought. It's about Steve."

"Steve?" The name brought a jolt of surprise. "My son died a long time ago. What could this have to do with him?"

Justin was shaking his head negatively as she spoke. "No, Jo. I don't know how it could have happened, but Bo told me that Steve somehow survived. He's alive, and in Salem right now." He sat back with a sigh. "I'm afraid I'm not explaining this very well."

Jo's hands steepled over her mouth and nose, fighting the overwhelming emotion that was building upon hearing his words, wanting to believe them, but her logical mind reminded her of the things she knew, the thing she had seen. "Are you sure he wasn't talking about Jack?"

"Yes. Bo assured me that it's true. Steve is alive."

"I don't understand. How? How can this be? Kayla was with him when he died. The doctors confirmed it. We had a funeral. We saw him in his coffin."

"That's where things get a little complicated. Bo said they don't have all the details yet, but from what I can deduce from Bo's explanation, Steve was kidnapped because of something they think he knows. He managed to escape a few days ago. It is these same men who kidnapped Adrienne. They're using her as a bargaining tool to try to get Steve back."

"Steve is alive," she repeated, her blue eyes filling with tears. "All these years . . . ."

"I know," he said, gently. "It was a very cruel thing to do."

"But Adrienne," she said worriedly. "There has to be another way to get her back. I don't want to lose either of them."

"I know. Bo assured me that they're working on a plan. Jo, I'm flying to Salem. I can't just sit here waiting for word on Adrienne, and -"

"I'm going with you," she announced. "I want to see my son and I want to be there for my daughter, and don't you dare try to stop me!"

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I won't. I have a plane being fueled right now. Why don't you go pack a few things while I check in with the pilot? I need to call the boys too. They're big enough to be on their own for a few days, as long as the housekeeper checks in on them."

Without another word, Jo hurried into the bedroom to pack enough things for several days. While she was doing that, Justin called his oldest son, Alexander, to let him know what was going on and issued a stern behavior warning. Next, he called the housekeeper to request that she look in on the boys. Then he called the pilot, and was informed that the plane would be ready by the time he got there, and that the flight would be a little over two hours on the jet.

He was still on the phone relaying the information to Bo when Jo entered the living room pulling her rolling suitcase behind her.

Seeing her son in law on the telephone, her expression became anxious. "Is that Bo? Is Steve with him?"

Justin nodded to let her know that he had heard, then said, "Bo, Jo is here with me, and she is very anxious to talk to Steve."

"Hang on a minute," Bo said. Covering the mouthpiece, he turned to Steve. "You mother is with Justin and she wants to talk to you."

Steve nodded. "Yeah, I'd like to talk to her too."

Removing his hand from the mouthpiece, Bo said, "Justin, put her on."

Justin handed her the cell phone, and she lifted it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Johnson, this is Bo Brady. Hang on a second. I'm putting Steve on." He passed the phone to Steve, who lifted it to his ear.

"Momma?"

He sounded exactly as he always had, the familiar voice she never thought she would hear again, and she burst into tears of joy. "Steve! Stevie!"

She had not called him by his childhood name since she had first come back into his life, and he knew it was an emotional reaction. "I know, Momma. It's okay. Don't cry."

Kayla, who understood exactly what Jo was experiencing, placing a loving hand against his back, just to be touching him in a way that Jo could not at that moment.

"I can't help it," Jo wept. "I never thought I'd ever hear your voice again. All these years, we thought you were dead! What happened? How did they do this?"

"We don't have all the answers yet, but I'll tell you everything I know when you get here. So much has happened while I was gone. Stephanie is almost grown up!"

Jo's heart constricted in sorrow at the thought of how much Steve had missed of his daughter's life. "Oh, Steve. I just can't believe they could get away with this for so long."

"Makes two of us."

"Have you seen Jack?"

"No, not yet, but once this is over, we'll have a reunion or something."

Justin tapped his watch, indicating that they needed to get going.

"Steve, Justin says we need to leave now. You'll be waiting when I get there?"

"I'll be here, Momma."

"Okay. I'll see you then."

Jo handed the phone back to Justin, who raised it to his ear. "Steve, you still there?"

"Dimples!" Steve said in a joking voice.

Justin cringed at the nickname that Steve had always called him by, but ignored it. "We're on our way out the door. Tell Bo we'll be at Salem International in a little over two hours."

"Will do. Have a safe flight, Justin," he said. The teasing nickname had been shelved temporarily, a fact that Justin noticed and appreciated.

"Thanks, Steve. We'll see you soon."


	46. Chapter 46

Squatting down on the crest of the knoll to minimize his profile against the vast Midwestern skyline, Roman studied the long low structure that was nestled in the valley below. Positioned in a low-lying area outside Salem, the abandoned fruit plant was not visible from any of the nearby roads and highways, a fact that obviously made it attractive as a hideout, and he had to hand it to Vaughn for finding it.

As he analyzed the scene below, he detected no movement. The building appeared deserted, with no sign of either humans or vehicles, and in fact looked like no one had been there for years. The tall grasses and overgrown brush waved mildly in the slight breeze, and even from the distance, he could see clumps of stubborn grass growing in the cracks of the sidewalks and parking areas.

"Anyone see any sign of movement?" he asked, speaking into the handy-talkie. "Any vehicles visible in your positions?"

"Negative," Bo responded from his position on Roman's right, where he had a view of the building's east end.

"Negative here, too," Abe Carver said. "The place looks completely deserted. Are you sure this is the right place?"

Roman sighed, unwilling to admit that he was starting to wonder as well if Kim had incorrectly interpreted Adrienne's clue. But there was no other place in or around Salem that matched.

"Well, I don't think they're going to be advertising their presence," he replied. "These guys are I.S.A., or they used to be, so they're going to be very good at keeping themselves hidden. The victim indicated through clues that this is the right place, so we must proceed on the assumption that she is in there." He lifted his binoculars for a closer view of the entrances. "I'm seeing only two doors on the south side of the building. One is a garage-style door, the other a pedestrian door beside it. Both are closed, but there is no indication of any padlocks or deadbolts."

"There's a group of loading docks on the east side," Bo said from his position. "Four of them. No one's going in or out there, though; not without bolt cutters. I can see the locks from here on the doors."

"There's a single garage-style door on the north side," Abe said. "Probably directly opposite the one you're seeing, Roman. It has a padlock on it. There is no pedestrian door back here."

"No exits at all over here on the west side," Shane reported. "Leave it to me to get the boring side."

"Okay, if they're in there, it looks like they're using these two doors," Roman said. "Since there is no lock on the garage door, I'm guessing they're keeping their vehicles inside to avoid attracting attention to themselves if anyone happened by. Can anyone see any windows low enough to the ground to be utilized?"

"Negative," Abe replied. "All the windows back here are very high, near the ceiling. Most are broken, probably by rock-throwing kids with nothing better to do with their time than vandalism."

"Yeah, same here," Roman agreed, then his eyes fell on the four men who were concealed in the tall brush near the large crumbling asphalt slab that had once been the parking lot for the plant's employees. Wearing Kevlar vests, protective helmets, and carrying rifles, they had been selected to enter the building first to neutralize the situation. The leader wore a headset inside his helmet to communicate with command. "Looks like everyone is going in the front door, gentlemen. Kenny, I want everyone inside fast to catch them off guard. We cannot give them time to recover from the surprise. Remember, they're holding a woman hostage. We don't want to give them any time to grab her to use as a shield. Her safety is paramount."

"Understood," came the response from the SWAT leader.

"Remember, we need these guys alive, so if they resist, shoot to disarm or wound only. Do not shoot to kill unless absolutely necessary to protect yourselves or the woman. I repeat: do not shoot to kill."

"Understood," came Kenny's immediate response. "We shoot to disarm and immobilize."

"On my mark, go to the pedestrian door and prepare to enter. Do not attempt the garage door. The time needed to raise it cannot be spared." Still watching through the binoculars, looking for anything that might be a danger to his team, he added, "Mark."

Bent at the waist, the four SWAT members left the cover of the brush and hurried quietly to the pedestrian door, pressing close against it. One of them carried a batterer in the event that the door was locked.

The SWAT leader gave a hand signal to Roman that they were in position and ready.

"At your discretion," Roman directed.

The SWAT leader counted down from five to one with his fingers, then one of them slowly and carefully turned the doorknob. It was unlocked, so they pulled it open and burst through it so abruptly that Adrienne nearly leaped over the back of the sofa on which she was seated.

Drawn by the sudden movement, one of the officers turned his rifle briefly in her direction, met her wide terrified eyes, then swung away from her, settling on Carlton, who had already recognized the futility of resisting, and had thrust his hands into the air in surrender. The cup of coffee he had been holding was lying on the floor at his feet, spilling its contents in a black puddle on the hard cement.

A second officer was covering Jennings, who responded as Carlton had by thrusting his empty hands in the air, but his eyes darted back and forth, as if seeking an avenue of escape that did not exist.

The other two officers were inspecting the rest of the warehouse through the sights on their rifles, looking for other perpetrators. One of them investigated the rental car that was parked near the garage door.

"There's another one in the bathroom!" Adrienne said, pointing. "He has a gun."

The response was immediate. The two officers who had been conducting the visual search rushed toward the bathroom door, stopping about ten paces back, but taking positions about 15 feet from each other, their weapons fixed on the closed wooden door.

"You, in the bathroom. If you have a weapon, I want you to toss it out first, then I want you to come out with your hands on your head."

After a long moment of silence, during which the man in the lavatory seemed indecisive, the officer said, "We have the door well covered, and you have no hope of escaping. Do not make us come in there after you."

After another brief pause, the door cracked open and a pistol was tossed out. It clattered and slid on the concrete before coming to a stop at the officer's feet. He placed his foot on it, his attention directed totally on the bathroom door.

"Open the door and come out with your hands on your head," he repeated.

The door opened as directed, and the man stepped cautiously out, his hands laced together on top of his head.

With one man covering each of the three criminals, the man who seemed to be in charge of the SWAT unit, with the name tag "Kenny Stroud" on his uniform, raised the barrel of his rifle toward the ceiling and approached Adrienne. "Are you all right, ma'am?"

"Yes. I'm sure glad to see you guys!" Adrienne replied, her voice trembling slightly from the excitement and shock of the raid.

The officer spoke into the microphone on his shoulder. "The area is secure. No shots fired. We have three in custody, and the hostage is safe."

"Good job," Roman praised as he and the command unit made their way down the hill toward the warehouse.

When he, Bo, and Abe entered the building, they found the officers putting the handcuffs on the three criminals, but to Roman's consternation, former Agent Vaughn was not among them.

"Where's Vaughn?" Roman asked, his eyes going from one to the other of the three men who were lined up against the wall.

Two of the men glared defiantly, but the one on the far right of the group lowered his gaze to the floor, as if ashamed. For the moment, no one seemed willing to speak.

"Read them their rights," Roman said to Abe, who began to recite the Miranda Warning. Roman walked over to Adrienne, who was standing beside the sofa, and he immediately noticed the chain the tethered her to the support post. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded. "A little shaken, but I'm all right."

"Who has the key to the shackle?"

"Vaughn, I think. He left about a half hour ago, but he didn't say where he was going or when he would be back."

"Okay. We'll get some tools in here to get those off."

"Thank you.

"We notified Justin and your mother," Bo said. "They're on their way to Salem as we speak. Should be here in a few hours."

"Where's Steve?"

"He's at a safe house. I'll drive you over their as soon as you're free."

Emotion rose again, tightening in her throat. "I was afraid that when you caught these guys, you'd tell me that it was all a hoax to trap them, that Steve wasn't alive after all."

Bo smiled. "I'm happy to say that he's definitely alive and chomping at the bit to get out of that house."

A laugh managed to break through the choking emotion that had threatened her with tears. "That sounds like Steve."

Bo gazed at her a moment with admiration in his eyes. "You did good, Adrienne. That was a good clue you gave us."

"I'm just lucky they took me someplace I was somewhat familiar with."

Roman turned to observe the three criminals. "Do you know who any of those guys are?"

She shook her head. "No. I do know that Vaughn assigned a couple of them to guard me in shifts. The other one is a sharpshooter, I think."

"Steve told me there was a sharpshooter by the name of Harding," Bo said. "This must be him."

Adrienne nodded. "Yes. Vaughn called him Harding."

"Which one is he?" Roman asked.

"The one on the left. The one next to him is called Jennings. The one on the right is Carlton. I don't know if these are their real names, but that's what they were calling each other."

Bo quickly jotted the names down. "No first names?"

"No, they were never that friendly with each other."

"That's fine. It's something to work with. All the names correspond with what Steve has already told us."

Roman's attention went to the rental car that was parked inside the garage door. "I'll bet that car is rented to one of them. Wait here."

Leaving them for a few minutes, he approached the car and opened the door. After slipping on a pair of latex gloves, he examined the paperwork inside the glove compartment. It was rented to Doyle Jennings, and when he looked up, his eyes met the bitter, hostile eyes of the man himself.

He shoved the paperwork back into the glove compartment and lifted the handy-talkie again. "This is Chief Brady. I need a couple of officers to go over to Champion Rental Car and see if they rented a vehicle to a man named Ogden Vaughn. He may be using an alias, so pull his picture out of the file and have the officers present it to the employees. We need to know the make, model, and color of the car he's driving. If they give you any trouble, let me know and I'll get a court order. Once the officers obtain the information, I want an APB put out on both Vaughn and the car. He's to be brought in for questioning on charges of kidnapping and breaking and entering for starters, but I'm sure I can come up with a few more charges to add to that."

"Yes sir," came the immediate response from dispatch.

Roman pushed the car door shut and removed his latex gloves. To young Jonesy, who had been present for the exhumation of the coffin and whom he knew to be quick and reliable, he said, "Bring in the forensics team to lift fingerprints and fibers from the car. I don't think we'll need it for our case against them, but I want to be thorough."

"Yes, sir."

Turning, Roman walked back across the concrete floor toward Adrienne and Bo. She was seated on the sofa, while an officer, who had located some tools, was kneeling before her, working on freeing her from the shackle that had restrained her. "About to wrap things up here?" he asked.

Bo, who had been watching, nodded. "Just about."

"Got it," said the officer as the shackle popped open. He pried it open wide enough to remove it from her ankle, then stood up.

"Thank you," Adrienne said, gratefully.

The officer smiled. "You're welcome, ma'am."

"All right," Roman said, turning to Bo. "Abe and I will finish up here. Why don't you take Adrienne out to the safe house? I'm sure she's eager to see her brother."

Her face. "Yes, I am!"

"Sure," Bo replied, then offered his hand. "Can you stand okay?"

"Yeah. The shackle wasn't that tight." Nevertheless, she accepted the hand that was offered and allowed him to assist her to her feet. To her surprise, she found that she was a bit wobbly in the aftermath of the raid, and he held her hand long enough to steady her. "Thank you. I guess I'm a little more shaken up than I realized."

"Do you want me to run you by the hospital first to be checked out?"

"No, no. I'm fine. I just want to see Steve."

Together, they walked across the smooth concrete floor, and as they walked, Adrienne turned her head to look at her former guards, who still stood in a row, handcuffed. Carlton was standing quietly, staring at the floor as if ashamed or dreading the legal process, while Jennings and Harding glared back at her, defiantly. All of them were silent, waiting to be taking to the station for questioning.

When they reached the door, Bo slowed to allow her to pass through first, then caught up with her again. She emerged into the bright Midwestern sunshine, blinking against the strength of the sun. Six or seven police cars, their lights flashing, were parked outside the door.

Just outside the door, they met Shane, who was waiting for the building to be secured by local law enforcement before entering. "Going out to see Steve?" he asked, cheerfully.

"Yes," Adrienne replied. "Thanks for everything you did to help me."

"You're welcome," he replied, then turned to Bo. "I hate to ask, but would you mind giving Kim a lift back to the pub? I left her at the safe house with Steve and Kayla, but I'm probably not going to be able to make it back out there for a while."

"Sure, be glad to."

"One more thing. Steve knows these guys better than anyone. Ask him which one might be the most likely to cooperate than the others."

"Sure thing. Thinking of getting one of them to turn against the others?"

"Seems like the best way to get the information we need."

As Bo and Adrienne proceeded across the asphalt lot, he said, "My car is parked just over the hill. We can either walk it, or have one of the officers drive us up."

"No, I'm fine," she assured him. "We can walk."

Moving in the direction he had indicated, they stepped off the asphalt parking area onto the knee-high grass, and started up the hill. It was shallow, and not difficult to climb, and to Adrienne it felt good to be moving around.

"So, how's my cousin these days?" Bo asked, amiably.

She glanced at him though eyes that were still narrowed from the unaccustomed sunlight, understanding that he was making small talk. "He's great. His law practice is doing very well."

"That's great. I don't talk to him very often, but I'm glad everything is going well."

"You said that Mama and Justin are on their way up here. Have you spoken with them yourself?"

"Yes."

"I was so upset, knowing that they were worried about me. Do they know about Steve?"

"Yes. I told Justin by phone, and he notified your mother. We both agreed that the news would be easier coming from him."

"Thank you for being so considerate. I know it hasn't been easy for her."

"Well, I'd say your ma is pretty happy right now."

"She's not the only one!" Adrienne declared.

They passed over the summit of the hill, and Adrienne saw the cars parked below. They started down, and when they reached the bottom, he led her to his car and opened the passenger door for her.

* * *

While Bo and Adrienne walked up the hill to the car, Shane removed his cell phone from his pocket. He had felt it vibrating during the raid, but had been too involved to answer it. As he looked at the caller I.D., he was not surprised to see that it was Dennis Thiessen.

With a sigh, he lifted it to his ear. "Donovan."

"Shane, I'm glad you saw fit to answer this time," Thiessen said with an annoyed clip to his voice, apparently thinking his called was being deliberately ignored. "I haven't heard anything from you since you flew out of here the other night. Am I to assume you are still in the United States?"

"I am. I was unable to answer your previous call because I had accompanied the Salem Police in a raid that captured three of the men who were holding Steve Johnson all these years, and who are tied to the theft of the I.S.A. devices."

Thiessen seemed to brighten at the announcement. "Excellent! Did you find out which one was responsible for that?" he asked, nearly breathless with anticipation.

"I haven't had a chance to interrogate them yet. We're still on the scene, in fact. Once I get their names, I'll search the Database to see if any of them are current or former agents."

"All right," Thiessen said, mildly disappointed and apparently unaware that he had not allowed sufficient time for Shane to obtain the required information. "That is some progress, at least."

"These things take some time to sort out," Shane reminded him. "Local law enforcement is in charge of the raid. I am permitted to be here as a courtesy. I'll call you back when I have more to report." Without waiting for a reply, he disconnected the call and snapped the phone closed. Although he liked Thiessen personally, the I.S.A. was starting to get on his nerves.

Tucking the phone back into his pocket, he stepped through the warehouse door for the first time and paused to view the situation, which was well under control. Cooperation always made for better relations, but now it was imperative to learn as much as possible about the perpetrators and try to find out what involvement they might have had in his actual assignment regarding the stolen equipment.

Roman's officers were already involved in the process of collecting and cataloguing evidence in the vehicle that was parked just inside the garage style door, and also the two separate areas with chairs and a ragged sofa, obviously the area where Adrienne had been held captive, judging by the chain that was still attached to a support post.

The three prisoners were lined up against the wall, guarded by officers with rifles. Their hands were bound behind their backs either with hand-cuffs or the cable ties that were now sometimes used. Vaughn was conspicuously absent from the group, and he wondered which, if any, of the prisoners in custody had been I.S.A. agents. If one was, that man might be the contact they were looking for, the one who had helped facilitate the theft.

As he observed the prisoners, one of them, a pleasant looking man who had been looking at the floor in apparent misery, seemed to sense that he was being watched. Looking up, his eyes met Shane's, and in that gaze, he had the distinct impression that the man recognized him. Shane could not say he shared any sense of familiarity with the prisoner, but clearly the man had seen him, or perhaps his picture, at some point.

The prisoner held his gaze a moment longer, then looked at the floor again, presumably wishing he was somewhere else at that moment.

"Shane," a familiar voice caught his attention, and he turned to see Roman approaching. "Here's a list of names," he said, offering a slip of paper, which Shane accepted. "They're all British, but we have no idea what connection they may or may not have with the I.S.A."

"Carlton, Doyle Jennings, and Harding," Shane read aloud. "No first names on the other two?""

"No. We got Jennings' name from the rental car, but Adrienne could only give us the last names on Carlton and Harding. They never revealed their first names, and they all refuse to talk to us."

"The names correspond to what Steve told me, but none of them are familiar. We have a lot of agents that I don't know personally."

"We're going to take them down to the station and see if any of them are willing to talk."

"I suggest you keep them separated," Shane said. "We don't want them to have a chance to fabricate a story."

"I agree."

"I saw Bo as he was leaving. I asked him to see if Steve might suggest which one might be the most likely to cooperate. With some incentive, he might be willing to turn on the others."

"Good idea. You're welcome, of course, to be in on the interrogations, if you'd like."

"Absolutely. I appreciate that. In the meantime, I'll check out these names on the I.S.A. Database, and then I'll meet you back at the station."

"Sounds good."

* * *

On the seldom used county highway that ran along the other side of the knoll on which Roman had been standing before the rescue, a beige car slowed down to view the vehicles that were parked on the shoulder, their emergency lights flashing.

A chill of apprehension rushed through him, understanding the significance of their presence.

"Damn it," Ogden Vaughn swore angrily.

Stomping on the gas pedal, he accelerated away from the area.


	47. Chapter 47

"They should have let me go along," Steve complained, nervously from the side window, where he paused to part the curtain with his finger before resuming his restless walk around the room.

Ever since Bo and Roman had left for their rescue mission, he had been pacing impatiently around the living room, unable to sit down and relax. He walked from the window, past the sofa, on which Kayla sat with her sister Kim, and stopped at the front door, where he turned around and circled behind the sofa. His hands restlessly stroked through his hair, straightened his eye patch, and were shoved in and out of his pockets.

"What the hell is taking so long?"

Seated on the sofa with her sister, Kayla had been watching her husband's nervous agitation, understanding his desire to help bring the kidnappers to justice, but inwardly gratified that he was safe with her. "I know you want to be there for Adrienne," she said. "It probably makes me sound selfish, but I'm glad you're here with me. If something had gone wrong, if those people had gotten the drop on you . . . I don't think I could stand it if I lost you again."

His expression softened and he paused behind the sofa to gently caress her cheek with his hand before resuming his stroll through the living room. "I know, baby, but I hate not knowing what's going on. I have a bigger bone to pick with these guys than anyone, but they're keeping me away from it. I should be there."

"Don't get angry at me for saying so, but I can understand why they insisted you stay behind," Kim said, her voice soothing and non-judgmental. "These people have high stakes in this game, and they wanted to lure you out in the open. What better way to rattle your cage than to offer up a loved one in exchange? Who knows what would have happened if you had been there?"

Steve could not feel rankled by Kim's calm assessment, because he knew that she was right. "I know," he admitted. "They know I might have done something rash. I just don't know what's going on out there. If they hurt her –"

"Steve, don't do this," Kayla admonished, quietly. "We can't just sit here and imagine all the things that might go wrong. Roman, Bo, and Abe are the top brass in their departments, and they're are all good at what they do. They will do everything they can possibly do to keep her safe."

"My head knows you're right, but my heart . . ." He paused briefly, his expression one of worry and grief. "I brought this right to her doorstep, Sweetness. She was kidnapped and placed in danger because of me."

Before Kayla could respond with an attempt to comfort him, her phone rang, and she reached into her purse for it. "Hello?" She listened for a moment, then offered it to Steve. "It's Bo. He wants to talk to you."

A stricken expression crossed his face as he reached out to accept the phone, certain that something had gone wrong, that something had happened to his sister. He pressed the phone to his ear, and his voice was anxious when he said, "Bo?"

"Steve, we have her," Bo told him. "She's fine, and she's anxious to see you."

He relaxed visibly in relief, his shoulders slumping as if exhausted. "Thanks, man. I owe you one."

"I'm bringing her to you right now. Tell Kim that Shane has been delayed at the scene and he asked me to take her back to the Pub."

Steve glanced at his sister in law. "I'll tell her. He's okay, isn't he?"

"He's fine." Bo paused to glance at his watch. "We're about five minutes out. We'll talk when we get there."

"See you in a few." He passed the phone back to Kayla. "She's fine. Bo's bringing her here."

"That's wonderful news!" Kayla exclaimed, with Kim echoing the sentiment.

Kayla stood up, and he swept her into his arms for an exuberant hug. "This is almost over, Sweetness!" he told her. "Then we'll be able to start our lives over again. As a family."

"I can't wait," she replied.

* * *

Adrienne had listened from the passenger side of Bo's car while he reported her safe recovery to Steve, hoping he would allow her to speak with him, but to her disappointment, he snapped his cell phone closed before she could ask.

"We'll be there in a few minutes," he said, indicating that he understood her eagerness to see and speak to her brother.

"Tell me what happened to Steve," she said. "How did this happen? Those criminals wouldn't tell me much of anything, except that they wanted to trade me for him. At first, I thought they were talking about Jack, but the one called Vaughn kept taunting me with references to Steve. Carlton told me he was alive, but he never told me anything more than that. I don't understand how this could happen."

As he drove along the country lanes, keeping an eye on his rear view mirror, Bo gave her an abbreviated rendition of Steve's kidnapping and incarceration.

Adrienne listened with growing astonishment. "And he has no idea what it is they're after?"

"None. I'm starting to think that Vaughn and his people don't know precisely what it is, either. I think the mastermind is keeping that detail to himself. Whatever it is, it must be very valuable, at least to him, but whether its monetary value or personal value, we don't know at this point. Whoever this person is, Alamain or someone else, he has a really deep pocketbook."

"Poor Steve," she lamented. "It must have been a miserable existence, locked up like that all this time."

"I don't doubt it. I don't know many people who could endure it as well as he has. It kind of reminds me of people who have been in prison for a long time and then released when DNA evidence proved them innocent. Unlike them, though, he was trapped in that underground room, never seeing the daylight. He's understandably angry and bitter at the people who did this, but he's coping well."

"He's a fighter," Adrienne declared. "He's been through a lot in his lifetime, and I think it made him stronger." Turning her head, she looked out the window at the lush green scenery. They and entered a heavily wooded area, and the dirt road had narrowed until it was little more than one lane. "I've really missed Salem," she said. "I'd forgotten how pretty and green it is here."

"Well, we Salemites are pretty fond of our old town," Bo agreed.

"It was hard to leave it, but Justin and I both agreed we needed a fresh start somewhere else." Noticing that Bo was repeatedly glancing in the review mirror, she turned in her seat to look behind the car, but saw nothing except the trailing plume of dust kicked up by the tires on Bo's vehicle and the long tunnel between the large trees that arched across the narrow road. "Is someone back there?"

"No. We're getting close, and I was just making sure that we're not being followed."

A pang of fear jolted through her. "We're not, right?"

"No, we're not. I don't think Vaughn has the courage to follow us himself, but it's possible that there are others working for him. We won't know for sure until Shane interrogates them."

"Better to be safe than sorry, Mama says."

"Exactly."

As they came around a curve in the road, they were confronted by what initially appeared to be a pile of brush and debris in the road, and Adrienne tensed as Bo applied the brakes.

"Is that going to be a problem?" she asked.

He smiled. "That is camouflage, designed to look like an impenetrable pile of debris, when in actuality it is a gate."

He rolled down the window, and to Adrienne's surprise, a police officer appeared through the dense trees and brush. Bo showed him his identification, even though he obviously already knew him from the friendly greeting.

After glancing at the I.D., he opened the gate, and Bo drove through it. Adrienne turned in her seat to watch as the gate was closed behind them.

"Steve is well protected," he told her with a reassuring smile.

"Yeah, I can see that," she agreed, settling back in her seat. "Thank you for taking care of him."

"You're welcome."

"I bet Kayla's really happy."

"That is an understatement. I don't think she ever completely got over losing him. She went on with her life, of course, but she was never able to find another man to love." He smiled again. "I guess that turned out to be a good thing." He shook his head, slowly, in disbelief. "I tell you, I thought I was seeing a ghost when Shane brought him over. That was just about the last thing I expected when Roman sent Hope and me out there to pick up him and Shane."

Following another curve in the road, they emerged into a clearing, and in the center of the clearing was the two-story cottage, the safe house he had told her about.

Adrienne felt her heartbeat quicken in anticipation. "That's it?'

"That's it," Bo confirmed, stopping the car near the door. He and Adrienne got out and started up the sidewalk.

Rubbing her sweating hands on her jeans to dry them, she said, "I'm so nervous."

"Don't be. He hasn't changed much over the years. He's still the same Steve you remember."

They went up the steps, and Bo punched the code into the security device, then knocked on the door. "Steve, Kayla? It's me."

Kayla opened it, and her face lit up in a brilliant smile when she saw her sister in law.

"Adrienne! Thank God you're safe! What you must have been through!"

They embraced, tightly.

"It's nothing compared to what Steve must have gone through all these years!"

A movement caught her eyes and she drew away from Kayla's embrace and stared at her brother as if he was an apparition. "Steve," she whispered. Then joy spread across her face and she rushed into his arms. "Steve!"

"I'm proud of you, baby," he praised, holding her tightly. "You did good. Did they hurt you?"

"No. No, they treated me okay, for a hostage."

"They had her chained by the ankle to a pillar inside the warehouse, but they had a sofa and chairs for her," Bo explained. "She was allowed to move about as far as the chain would reach."

"The only one I was kind of worried about was the one they called Jennings -"

"He's a hothead." Steve turned to Bo. "So, did you get all of those bastards?" Steve asked, one arm around Kayla, the other around Adrienne. "Are they behind bars where they belong?"

"Vaughn wasn't there. Roman, Shane, and Abe are still there, scouring the area, but it doesn't look promising. We got the other three. They were all there in the warehouse, right where Adrienne's message indicated they would be." He gave Adrienne an admiring glance. "You did good," he praised. "Kim is the one who figured out what you were trying to tell us, and after that, it was just a matter of pulling some officers together and getting out there."

"I was hoping someone would remember that old fruit plant. Justin and I drove past the warehouse once when we still lived here, and I started noticing the label on the pie filling when I was at the grocery store. It didn't take long for me to realize where I was." She smiled gratefully at Kim. "I should have known it would be a woman who would figure it out. I'm glad you were here."

"Me too," Kim agreed, responding to Adrienne's smile with one of her own.

"So, Bo told me on the way over here that these guys were the ones who were holding you prisoner all this time," Adrienne said to her brother. "I just wish they could have gotten that Vaughn person. He seems very . . . unbalanced."

"Demented," Steve added, in complete agreement.

"Well, I think he's been effectively neutered by losing his helpers," Bo said. "I get the impression he doesn't do much on his own, and Roman has an APB out on him. It's just a matter of time before we get him"

"So does that mean we can get out of here?" Steve asked.

"Not until Roman thinks it's safe. Vaughn probably doesn't have the means here to replace his men, but with a tranquilizer gun, he could easily stalk you and take you down. Plus he had resources to kidnap Adrienne in Dallas, so we have to assume he has the ability to bring others in to help him."

Steve sighed, disappointed. "I know. I just hate being cooped up like this."

"It shouldn't be much longer. Anyway, we're going to interrogate these three guys and see what we can learn. Shane's trying to figure out which one to start with, which one might be the most willing to cooperate –"

"Carlton," Steve said, promptly. "I always had the impression that he was not happy with what he was doing, but for some reason couldn't get out of it."

"Carlton," Bo repeated, pulling out his cell phone. "I'll let Shane know."

"I want to be there when he's interrogated," Steve said. "Can that be arranged?"

"Yeah, I don't see why not."

* * *

Feeling rather guilty about abandoning Kim at the safe house, Shane drove directly back to the Salem Inn as soon as he left the warehouse, and his first act upon reaching his suite was to retrieve his laptop computer from the closet safe. After booting it up, he tapped into the I.S.A. Database and typed in the names of the prisoners, and within minutes he received some of the information he was seeking.

While he had waited, he had received a brief phone call from Bo, informing him of Steve's suggestion that they concentrate on Carlton.

With that information in hand, Shane placed a call back to Thiessen.

"I have some additional information for you," he said when his supervisor answered the call. "I conducted a Database search of the three prisoners we apprehended, and it turns out that one of them is indeed a former I.S.A. agent. A fairly decent one, by all accounts. He appears to have left the organization some eight years ago to do what is listed as unspecified personal issues resulting from gambling debts."

Thiessen was silent a moment, pondering the information Shane had provided. "So none of them are current agents, and therefore have no security clearance. Is there any way to determine if he has remained in touch with any of the current agents, someone with access to those security devices?"

"No, nothing short of interrogating him, which I plan to do in a few hours. Steve Johnson suggested that he be the one we focus our attention on, that he might actually be the one most willing to talk. His name is Lance Carlton. Neither the name nor the face rang any bells with me, but I swear he was looking at me as if he knew me, or at least recognized me."

"That wouldn't be surprising, would it? You've become something of a legend within the organization. So, what concessions do you recommend as incentive for him to spill the goods on the others?"

"That depends on how far you're willing to go."

Thiessen instantly became cautious. "What do you mean?"

"Call it a feeling," Shane replied. "Perhaps instinct, if you believe in that sort of thing. Steve told me some things about his guards on the flight over, and I think Carlton is merely a pawn in all this, rather than a major player. He may or may not have provided the name of an agent willing to betray his oath, but personally, I don't think he's the liaison. I think that's' someone higher up in this group. Someone like Vaughn himself. Vaughn had access to employment records, knew who might be more willing to be bought off."

"Sounds like this Carlton may not be of much help to us."

"That is not necessarily the case. To the contrary, I think he may be of great help."

"So what do you suggest?"

"If I can get the American authorities to agree, I'd like to offer him clemency in exchange for everything he knows about Vaughn, this mastermind, and the theft of the devices."

"You mean let him off scot-free? I doubt the Americans will agree to that, especially since Johnson is the police chief's brother in law."

"He's my brother in law too, or at least he was," Shane reminded him. "Roman Brady wants Vaughn and the mastermind of this operation, and we want the agent responsible for the theft of I.S.A. equipment. With Carlton's complete testimony, we all win."

"Provided he has the answers you're after."

"If he doesn't have the answers, then it proves my point that he's merely a pawn. I took the liberty of checking for priors, and he has no prior criminal records of any kind, and he was a good agent when he was employed with us. My gut is telling me that he somehow got in over his head."

Thiessen was quiet for several moments, considering Shane's proposition. "I don't know, Shane. Regardless of how much he knows or doesn't know, I don't like the idea of him getting away with no punishment at all for his actions."

"I'm not suggesting that. I was thinking more in terms of probation and community service. His main purpose appears to have been to guard Steve to make certain he didn't escape and bring his meals to him. He has a family, Ryan."

"There are a lot of hardened criminals out there who have families, Shane. It doesn't make them redeemable."

"I know, but I don't think Carlton is one of them. I think with incentive, he will tell us what we need to know."

"Very well, then. Speak to the Americans, see if they are agreeable, and if they are and this Carlton can provide something useful, you may offer your concessions. I urge you, however, to proceed with caution on this matter, just in case you are wrong."

"I'll keep you informed," Shane promised.


	48. Chapter 48

Forty Eight

Carlton sat quietly in the interrogation room and stared miserably at the cold tiled floor between his feet. He had not seen the others, but knew they were probably being kept isolated as well to prevent them from concocting a story about their activities. Not that they would be able to come up with something convincing. The reality was that they were guilty of two counts of kidnapping and imprisonment. Nothing could alter that fact or justify it.

The only bit of furniture in the interrogation room was a pair of rather uncomfortable chairs positioned on either side of a small square table. He was not thinking about the discomfort of the chair, however. The only thing on his mind was his wife and children, who would be ashamed of him once word got out of his illegal and very cruel activities. They believed he was on a business trip. And if he ever got out of prison, he suspected his wife would not welcome him back into the family fold, but would most likely divorce him. He would not blame her if she did.

The door opened, and he looked up to see the identity of his visitor. No one had been to see him since he had been isolated from the others and taken to the stark room. He knew he was about to be questioned extensively about his activities.

Shane Donovan stood just inside the door, ramrod straight with the quietly self-assured nature that set him apart from most of the other I.S.A. agents that Carlton had known. The door closed behind him, and they both heard the key turn in the lock, securing them both inside.

Carlton broke eye contact and looked away, focusing on a mirror on the wall that he knew was probably a two-way with other officers there to witness the interrogation. He wondered who was behind it. American detectives, most likely. Perhaps even a few I.S.A. agents. All of them there to witness his testimony and use it against him in a court of law. He wondered where he would serve out his prison term; in the United States, or in Britain. Perhaps both, successively, since he had broken laws in both countries.

"First off, Mr. Carlton, I just want to say how disappointed I am in you," Shane said calmly as he approached the prisoner and sat down in the empty chair across from him. "I took the liberty of looking into your background, and by all indications, you were once a good agent. I cannot imagine why you decided to follow Vaughn down the road he had chosen."

Carlton was quiet for a moment, turning over the admonishment in his mind. In his younger days, he might have taken angry offense, but at the moment he just felt tired and defeated, convinced that there was no point in defending his behavior. "You're no more disappointed in me than I am in myself."

That was not the answer that Shane had expected, and he gazed at the prisoner for several moments. Carlton thought he saw a trace of sympathy in the older man's dark eyes.

"I have some questions for you, and I hope you'll answer them honestly," Shane said.

Carlton hesitated, concerned that he should obtain legal counseling. "I don't know much about the American legal system, but I know I should have a defender. A lawyer. Someone to speak for me." He lowered his eyes and cringed at the words he had just spoken. Never in a million years did he ever believe he would require the services of a criminal attorney.

"You can have a lawyer if you wish, but you should know that I've been in touch with our offices in London. They're willing to offer you some concessions, and the American authorities are agreeable, provided you give them useful information."

Carlton's head snapped back to look at Shane's face, as if to determine if he was serious. "What kind of concessions?"

"They're more interested in Vaughn and the architect of this operation than they are in you, and in exchange for your complete and honest testimony in this case, both here and at trial, they are willing to defer prison time in favor of probation. I'm not saying you'll get a slap on the wrist. You have a lot to answer for. But if you cooperate, you can return home to your family sooner rather than later and live a relatively normal life, provided you stay on the straight and narrow."

Carlton felt his heart leap in surprised reaction to the unexpected offer. It was far more than he could have even hoped for. "Why me? Why not Jennings or Harding? Or Vaughn, for that matter. He knows a lot more about all this than the rest of us."

"We'll question Vaughn once we catch him, but it's fair to say that he won't be receiving the same offer of clemency. Steve Johnson suggested to us that you were the one most likely to cooperate with us. He also said you were kinder to him, and that he felt you regretted much of what they did to him."

He nodded. Steve Johnson must have realized that his heart wasn't in the things he had been forced to do.

"How did Johnson know we had put a tranquilizer in his food?" he asked, curiously

"The drug you used has a mild but distinct bitterness. It might be overlooked once as bitter coffee, but he obviously recognized it from the previous time it was used."

"And he flushed it."

"Yes. And then pretended to be unconscious until you went upstairs, leaving Harding alone long enough for Steve to overpower him."

Carlton nodded again, slowly, thinking about that, then heaved a deep sigh. "I'm very sorry for everything we did to him."

"Everyone is always sorry when they get caught," Shane said.

"No, I really mean it. I could see that he was an all right guy. All he wanted was to go home to his family. He was always talking about his wife and his little girl; said that his wife, Kayla, was the one good thing that ever happened to him, and how his little girl was the light of his life. God, that made me feel bad, knowing that Vaughn was eventually going to . . . " His voice trailed, reluctant to continue. With a sigh, he looked down at the table, focusing on the scuffs and scratches that marred the top.

"Kill him?" Shane prompted.

"Yeah, probably. He never said it, but we all knew that would be the eventual outcome. Why would they keep him around after getting what they were after? Everyone already believed he was dead anyway; they would have just made it reality, and no one would have been the wiser."

"Is that why they kept him alive and in captivity all this time? They felt no pressure about holding him because they knew no one was looking for him?"

"Yeah, but there was pressure from someone, whoever is running this show. He wanted a faster resolution, but like you said, he was willing to wait because no one was looking for him."

Even without an agreement to the clemency proposition yet, Carlton was already providing useful information, but it was information that might be thrown out by a judge if Carlton did not agree to the terms. "Before you say anything else, I need your answer. Are you interested in the deal, or do you need some time to think about it?"

Carlton was quiet for several moments, considering the offer, but there really wasn't anything to think over. His choice was to tell them what they wanted to know or take his chances in court, where enough evidence would come out to put him behind bars for a long time. He nodded. "I'm not sure my wife will want me back after this, but yeah, I'll throw myself on your mercy and tell you everything I know."

Shane presented him with a sheet of paper and a pen. "I'll need you to read and sign this waver. Make certain you agree to everything that's on it. This just states that you are giving up your right to an attorney in exchange for clemency."

Carlton picked up the paper and read it carefully. Finding it agreeable, he signed it with the pen, then pushed both back across the table toward the agent.

Shane folded the paper and returned it and the pen to his pocket and glanced at the mirror, just a fleeting surreptitious glimpse, but it was enough to confirm Carlton's assumption that it was a two-way. "Would you mind if we record our conversation? That way we can keep everything straight, and it is for the protection of both of us."

Carlton shrugged. He knew the polite inquiry was merely a formality. If he did not agree, a stenographer would be taking down every word he said anyway. "Sure, go ahead."

Shane gave a nod, and he knew the recording unit was being activated by someone behind the mirror. "All right, state your name for the records, please."

"Lance Raymond Carlton."

"Age?"

Thirty-four."

"Mr. Carlton, you have informed me that you are willing to forgo your right to an attorney and answer the questions I am about to put before you regarding the kidnapping and illegal imprisonment of Steven Earl Johnson in exchange for the concession of probation and community service. Is this true?"

"Yes."

"And you have agreed to this willingly, without duress?"

"Yes."

"Where do you currently reside, Mr. Carlton?"

"Loughborough, Leicestershire, England."

"I'm familiar with it. Nice community," Shane said in a pleasant conversational tone.

Carlton sighed, heavily, hoping he would one day get to see it again. And that he would still have a family when he got there. "Yes, it is."

"You seem like a nice fellow," Shane observed. "Why did you decide it would be a good idea to step outside the law?"

Carlton's face colored somewhat, and Shane realized that it was embarrassment rather than anger. "I . . . Well . . . " His voice trailed, and he lapsed into uncomfortable silence for several moments before continuing, "I lived in London at the time working out of I.S.A. headquarters, but . . . "

"But?" Shane prompted.

"I . . . had acquired some debts." He hesitated, then shrugged. "Quite a lot of them, actually."

"Gambling?" Shane posed the question as a casual guess, but Carlton suspected he was already aware of that fact.

He folded his arms on the tabletop and lowered his head over them, ashamed. "Horseracing and the casinos. I guess I'm addicted to it. I . . . I get excited just thinking about it."

"How much were you in for?"

"About $200,000 pounds."

Inside the viewing room, Steve gave a low whistle.

"I wiped out our savings," Carlton continued. "I kept thinking if I could just win one big one, that would get me back in the black, and then I would quit, but it just never happened."

"Seldom does."

"I know. My racing bookie and the casino pit boss were demanding payment, but I didn't have any money left. I had a wife and child, and another on the way! That's when Vaughn found me. He knew I was desperate enough to do almost anything to get myself out of that mess."

"So his offer was too good to turn down?"

"He said he had a well-paying job for me, and that he had the authority to pay off all my gambling debts. All that was required of me was discretion. In other words, I could not reveal the nature of my employment to anyone, not even my wife."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I was working for a local private security company. She was so happy to have me away from the I.S.A. that she didn't even question the size of my salary."

"How long ago was this?"

"About seven or eight years, I think."

"What did he tell you would be your responsibilities in this job?"

"He said I would be a guard for a special international prisoner, and that my background as an I.S.A. field operative made me highly qualified. He stressed the confidentiality of the case, and impressed upon me that I was to ask no questions in regard to his crime. Nor was I to answer any questions that Johnson might present to me."

"And you didn't find all of this to be just a little bit odd that he was holding a man in a remote location that was not an actual prison?" Shane asked.

"Of course I did, but Vaughn told us that Johnson was an international prisoner of some importance, and that was the reason he was not in the regular prison system. At first, I had no reason to doubt him. And by paying off my debt, Vaughn made it clear that he essentially owned me. I was young and stupid, and by the time I wizened up and realized that something was terribly wrong, that he was lying, I was in too deep. There was no turning back."

"He didn't own you, Carlton, and it's never too late to turn back," Shane told him. "You owed him no loyalty. You should have come to us when you realized what was going on. You could have been an informant in this case. You probably would have gotten off scot-free, and Johnson would have gotten home to his family a lot sooner."

Carlton averted his eyes again and sighed, regretfully. "You can't make me feel any worse than I already do."

"I'm not trying to make you feel bad. I'm just trying to understand how an otherwise good agent could do such a thing."

"I was young and scared. Vaughn sort of hinted at the fact that if I backed out for any reason other than death, something might happen to my wife and kids. And I can't deny, the amount of money he was offering was very attractive, and my wife was thrilled to get me out of London, away from the casinos and race tracks."

"So there were a lot of incentives for you to do this," Shane concluded.

"It was a well-paying job that left me with no debt, so yes, there was a lot if incentives."

"After you had been on the job for a while and proved yourself a loyal employee, did they ever volunteer any information as to why Johnson was being held prisoner?"

"No, not at first. Eventually, as the years went by and Vaughn became more comfortable with us, he was less inclined to be as secretive. We started finding out a few things by listening to his phone conversations and such."

"We?"

"Me, and the other guards. We talked among ourselves, sometimes."

"And what did you find out?"

"That Johnson had not committed any crime at all, but was the key to some kind of treasure trove or something that Vaughn's employer wanted so bad that he would do anything and spend any amount of money to get it."

Shane's eyebrows lifted, intrigued. "Treasure trove? What kind of treasure? You mean like a pirate's treasure, or buried jewels, or a government stash? Something like that?"

Carlton shrugged. "I don't know. I used the word 'treasure' rather ambiguously for lack of a better word. All I know is, it must be something of great value and it's believed to be hidden on the property that was owned by Johnson and his family. This person who hired Vaughn is not just eager to get his hands on it, he's desperate, even frantic, to get it."

"Frantic. That's an interesting choice of words. How do you know he was frantic?"

"I overheard Vaughn on the phone with him once. Vaughn was trying to calm him down. You know, giving him assurances that he would get the information he needed. I could hear this guy's voice on the other end of the line, he was talking so loud."

"Really? What did he say?"

"I couldn't hear many of the words, not really. Just the desperation in his voice. He was angry and frustrated that things were not moving along faster."

"But you have no idea what it might be that he wants so desperately?"

"None at all; not a clue." He shifted in his chair and glanced at the mirror again, wondering once again who was on the other side of it. "You should know something though," he said, hesitantly. "Vaughn has an active contact within the I.S.A."

Shane felt a jolt of interest. He had not yet mentioned a contact inside the I.S.A. and would have gotten to it later in the interview, but Carlton had laid it at his feet with no prompting. "Go on," he said.

"He's playing on both sides of the fence, and was probably the one who told Vaughn about me, about my problems. Word is, I was going to be fired or placed on suspension for my gambling addiction. I was considered a liability, someone whose behavior and preoccupations might be dangerous for other agents. He knew I would be an easy touch."

"What office does he work out of?" Shane asked.

"I'm pretty sure he works out of the London headquarters. I don't think he would have known about my addiction if he was a field agent."

Shane gave a slight nod of agreement. "Thank you for volunteering that bit of information. You just earned yourself some bonus points, and I assure you, that effort will help you in the long run."

"Thank you. This person also provided the security devices that were installed in the building. I think his name is Carroll."

There is was, the information he had been assigned the task of obtaining. Shane felt an inner jolt of elation along with a twinge of disappointment. He had met Bob Carroll several times, and his high placement inside the organization made the items easily accessible.

"Are you absolutely certain of the name?"

"I overheard Vaughn talking to him, and he called him by that name. Yes, I'm sure."

"So he's in pretty deep as well." Shane leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully. "Sounds like an awful lot of people on the payroll. Will everyone be getting a cut of this treasure?"

"It isn't really as many people as it seems. Most people were paid in a lump sum for information or useful items. Kickbacks. That sort of thing. I can't say for sure, but I think this guy, Carroll, was paid per item delivered, and was not on the regular payroll. The only full time salaried employees were the guards, including me."

"Steve tells me there were three guards."

"Yes. Jennings and I were the ones who brought his meals, while Harding covered us with a dart rifle."

"The mastermind must have some bankroll. Steve was held for 10 years with all of you either on payroll or getting kickbacks, as you say. Do you know his name?"

"No. Again, only Vaughn knows that, and he was very careful to keep it from us."

"Have you ever heard the name 'Alamain' mentioned at any time during the last fifteen years?"

Carlton shook his head. "No, never heard it before. Wait a minute," he added quickly. "I think Johnson asked me several times if Alamain was the one who kidnapped him. He's the only person I've ever heard mention it, though."

"We suspect him to be the architect of this whole operation. Apparently Steve did as well." Shane sighed, heavily. "I still can't understand how this treasure could be so valuable that he was willing to pay all three of you over the course of 10 years."

"I have long been under the impression that he's so wealthy that our salaries are barely noticed by him. And besides, Johnson wasn't supposed to be held as long as he was; nowhere near that long."

"So things weren't going according to plan?"

"Very little went according to plan, actually. On the surface, the operation appears brilliant, almost flawless, but underneath, I think it was pretty sloppy."

"Explain."

"Well, for starters, Johnson nearly died. I wasn't there at the time. I came after that, but Jennings told me about it. He said that when Johnson was in the hospital here in Salem, they had given him some sort of new I.S.A. drugs that made him appear dead. They had to be re-administered several times to keep him under, and he apparently did well with the drugs until the final dose. I guess they gave him too much or something."

"Those drugs had never been tested on a human before," Shane told him. "They were still in the experimental stages, and had been used with only limited success in laboratory animals. The production and testing were abandoned as being too dangerous for human use."

"I'd never heard about it, even when I was with the I.S.A., so I guess it wasn't common knowledge among the rank and file. Plus, they tampered with the hospital monitors in his room. Although the drug mimicked death in a lot of ways, the monitors could have detected a heartbeat, so it was adjusted so that it would flatline even though there was a shallow pulse. Anyway, Johnson was unconscious or semi-conscious for a long time, and when he finally started coming out of it, he was not very responsive. Almost like an Alzheimer's patient would be. He had a lot of trouble with short term memory loss, and couldn't even remember his guards from one day to the next. He spoke very little and was in sort of a daze or a stupor for much of the time. Jennings told me he just sat wherever they put him, never speaking, and his eye was sort of unfocused. They weren't sure he would ever come out of it." He cleared his throat and coughed. "Could I have a glass of water, please?"

"Certainly." Shane glanced at the two way mirror, and Roman nodded to one of the detectives, who left the viewing room to get the water.

With the lull in the interrogation, Roman turned to Steve. "Do you remember any of that?"

Steve shook his head, thoughtfully. "No, none of it, but it explains why I didn't realize how long I had been held captive by those people. I thought it was more like five or six years at the absolute most. Kayla and I were talking about it the other night, that so much of my life is missing."

"It also explains why Alamain purchased the property, so he could search on his own. He wasn't sure you were ever going to recover enough to be of help to him."

The detective entered the interrogation room with a paper cup filled with water. Shane met him at the door, then carried it to Carlton and waited while he drained the cup.

"Thank you," Carlton said, gratefully, as he lowered the cup. He placed it on the table and focused his attention on it, sliding it back and forth between his hands. "I was brought in about the time Johnson started to make some improvements. Vaughn decided he needed additional supervision."

"What happened when Steve started to recover?" Shane prompted.

"Well, at some point before I was hired, a doctor was brought in to monitor his condition. I don't know where they found him or how much they told him, but he monitored Johnson frequently for a while, then as he started getting better, he came once a year for a physical. It took years for him to recover completely. I felt bad about that, knowing he had a wife and child."

"But not bad enough to notify the authorities," Shane pointed out.

"I was in too deep. I told you, if Vaughn or his employer found out, I or a member of my own family would have been found dead somewhere. When this mastermind, as you call him, finds out that I've told you as much as I know, he'll probably do it anyway."

"I'll have an agent assigned to protect your family."

Relief swept across Carlton's face. "Thank you."

Watching through the mirror, Steve muttered, "Now you know what I felt like worrying about Kayla, you bastard."

"What do you know about the mortician that was found in Steve's grave in Salem?" Shane asked.

Carlton's expression was one of genuine surprise. "I knew that Johnson was believed by his family and friends to have died and that a coffin would have been buried by them, but I never asked about it, and no one ever volunteered any information about it to me. I know nothing of this mortician, or anyone else who might have been place in the coffin in Johnson's place. That would have been well before my time"

Shane nodded, indicating that he believed him. "I knew it was a long shot before I asked, but I was hoping maybe you had heard something."

"No, sorry."

"All right, then. You've been very helpful, Mr. Carlton. We may have more questions for you later, but I think we're finished for the moment. I will advocate for you with both Salem PD and the British officials, but I think it is accurate to say that everyone on both sides of the Atlantic will be very pleased with the information you've provided. It will be necessary to keep you in custody until everything has been processed, but I expect you should be back home in a few weeks' time."

"Thank you."

Rising from the chair, Shane went to the door and tapped on it. It opened from the other side, and after the agent had stepped through it, it was closed and locked again, leaving Carlton alone.


	49. Chapter 49

"I never did care much for flying," Jo Johnson said absently as she gazed out the window of the chartered flight at the patterned ground below. "We're just so far off the ground." She turned toward him quickly, knowing what he was about to say. "Oh, I know what they say about it being safer to fly than to drive a car, but I think it's more to do with not being in control. And it is a long way down," she added, turning back to the window to view the ground, so far below.

Justin observed his wife's mother for a long moment, understanding that it was worry for Adrienne that kept her talking about inconsequential things. As long as she was talking about something else, it kept her from brooding about her daughter. "Well, I have a confession to make," he said. When she turned to face him again, he continued. "I don't care much for flying either. It's the fastest way to travel long distances, and so I fly, but I'd just as soon take my car."

She turned back to the window again. The landscape had changed from the flat plains to the rolling green hills, and they both knew they were not far from their destination.

"We haven't heard anything from Bo," she mused.

"There's probably nothing new to report," he told her.

"That means she's still being held hostage," she said, worriedly.

He reached across the narrow aisle to grasp her hand. "We're going to get her back safe and sound," he promised. "Steve isn't going to let them harm her."

* * *

With a disappointed sigh, Adrienne disconnected the call and handed the cell phone back to Bo. "Still no answer," she said. "It's going directly to voice mail. What do you suppose is wrong?" she asked, worriedly. Restlessly, she stood up, abandoning the black vinyl bench she had been sharing with Bo. "Why isn't he answering?"

"I'm sure nothing's wrong," he replied, comfortingly. "Most likely, the battery is down on his phone."

That was probably true, and she gave a nod to acknowledge his comment, then turned and walked restlessly to the glass wall that ran from the floor to the ceiling of the airport terminal's lower level, where the private planes boarded. Directly above, drifting down the stairwell, she could hear the hustle and bustle of travelers as they walked along the concourse toward the commercial airline terminals, where they would board the tall planes through jetway arms.

Several times while they had waited, Bo had allowed her to use his phone in an attempt to call Justin to let him and her mother know that she was safe, but always it was the same; Justin's curt businesslike voice urging the caller to leave a message. She had left a message the first time, but he had not returned the call, indicating that he had not received the message. Normally, Justin was fastidious about keeping his phone battery charged, so that he was always available for his clients, but in the aftermath of her kidnapping, it was feasible that he might have forgotten.

Outside the window, a large jet taxied slowly along the tarmac toward the gate to which it had been assigned, and she looked at the passengers who were visible in the windows, wondering idly where they were from and where they had traveled. Then, with another heavy sigh, she turned her back to the window and glanced at the round clock on the wall. It was nearing 24 hours since her kidnapping from the parking garage, but it somehow seemed much longer. The distance she had traveled and the events she had endured seemed to have distorted the reality of time.

"It shouldn't be much longer," Bo told her, understanding her restlessness. "The last time I checked with the desk, they were only a few hundred miles out."

She moved closer to him, but instead of sitting down beside him again, she leaned back against the wall. Turning her head toward him, she said, "I want to thank you for coming here to pick up Mama and Justin. I know you would have preferred to be at the station while they question those guys about what they did to Steve."

Bo's pause was just long enough to confirm that he would have liked to be there, while they interrogated Carlton. As Steve's friend and brother in law, he had a vested interest in the mystery involving him and the Wyatt house. However, he would be briefed about it later, so he shrugged it off in a good natured fashion. "Roman and Shane have it under control, and they're recording everything, so it doesn't matter if I'm there."

"Well, I still appreciate it."

He smiled. "It's my pleasure. Really. It's nice to be a part of reuniting this family, especially after everything that's happened over the past fifteen years."

"Poor Steve," she said, sorrowfully. "As hard as it was for us to deal with losing him, I can't even begin to imagine what it was like for him, alive and being held against his will all those years, wondering about his family, missing his wife and daughter. That is just such a cruel thing to do. How could anyone be so mean?"

"I don't know. Criminals aren't really known for having a conscience. They tend to think only of themselves and what they can get out of it."

She fell silent for several moments, watching the planes moving slowly to and from the runway, pondering the mystery of her kidnapping and the greater mystery of Steve's kidnapping and the reasons behind it.

"Why was Steve taken to England?" she wondered aloud.

"Several reasons, we think. It was an I.S.A. drug that was used on him, so it required someone familiar with the drug and its effects to bring him out of it," Bo replied. "And they were using I.S.A. equipment to secure him. That's the best explanation we can come up with."

"If they were searching for information about the house, why was Steve considered the key?" she wondered aloud. "I mean, Kayla lived there too, but they made no attempt to kidnap her until after Steve's escape, and even then, if they had succeeded, it was only to make him talk, not because they thought she had the same information. Why did they think he alone knew the answer they were seeking?"

"That's actually a good question, because she knows everything about the house that he does. Both of them have stated that. We're hoping that Vaughn may have the answers we need to close this case. Most importantly, we need to know the name of the mastermind, the person who put this all together."

"Whoever he is, he must be awfully smart to have kept this from us for so long."

"Smart and very rich to keep this going so long. The kicker is," Bo said, "whatever it is this person wants, it may not be in that house at all, but in the Matthews house in Virginia."

"How could they know about the Wyatt house but not the Matthews house?"

"Another good question for which we have no answer. But we will get to the bottom of it, I assure you."

"It's just all so strange," Adrienne said. "I mean Steve's just an ordinary guy from the Midwest. I know he did some questionable things in his past, but I just can't imagine how they could possibly think he knows anything about what they're looking for. They should be looking for the descendants of the house's previous owners, shouldn't they?"

"I know," Bo agreed. "It doesn't make any sense. But Shane has sent some agents out searching for the Matthews' house. Once they find it, maybe the components of this mystery will start falling into place."

As he turned back to the windows, he saw the lean private jet, gleaming white in the sunshine, as it taxied into view, dwarfed by the size of the 727 at the neighboring jet way.

"That should be it," he said, rising from the bench.

Adrienne's heart leaped in anticipation, and she pushed herself away from the wall and followed Bo to the door to wait. Non personnel and those who were not arriving or departing passengers were not permitted on the tarmac, part of the high security that had been in place since the terrorist attacks of 9/11, so she did not open the door, even though she very much wanted to rush outside to greet them. As a police detective, Bo would have had the authority to do so, but out of consideration for her, he remained inside, and they watched as the plane came to a complete stop.

Through the plane's large windshield, they could see the pilot at the controls as he powered down the small jet, then he removed his headset and stood up. Turning toward the rear, he then disappeared from view. Past experience on small jets when she occasionally accompanied Justin on his business trips, she knew there were no flight attendants, leaving it to the pilot or co-pilot to open the passenger exits.

A few moments later, half of the hatch door folded up, the other half folded down to form the exit stairs, and Justin came into view, so handsome in his jeans and casual polo shirt that he still took her breath away. With two small suitcases in his hands, he trotted nimbly down the steps, then stopped at the bottom and after setting the bags down on the tarmac, he reached up toward the hatch, offering his hand to assist his mother in law.

Adrienne's heart seemed to expand with love for her husband and his consideration and affection for her mother. Jo, she knew, regarded him as the best son-in-law that any woman could hope to have, and he in turn seemed to adore her.

Jo took his steadying hand and made her way down the steps with more caution than Justin had used, but her worry for her daughter's safety was evident in her nervous and anxious countenance.

When she reached the bottom, Justin gestured toward the terminal door, then picked up the luggage again, and together they moved toward it. Adrienne was desperate to wave to them, to relieve their obvious worry by attracting their attention, but the tinted glass that protected the interior from the blazing summer sun also prevented them from seeing her. Her image was merely an unidentifiable shadow from their perspective, and she felt annoyed that she couldn't simply open the door and walk out to greet them.

"I know, it's frustrating," Bo said, understanding her agitation.

"Mama looks so worried," she lamented. "I wish someone would open this door!" she added, giving a nearby security guard a pointed stare.

"Think how happy she'll be to see you," Bo said.

The security guard who had been standing attentively at the bottom of the escalators had been watching the progress of the two passengers approaching the terminal on foot, and as they neared the door he finally unlocked and opened it. Instantly, the small waiting area was assaulted by the loud whine of airplane engines from the commercial flights waiting at the jet ways for passengers and the roar of a jet speeding down the runway. The smell of jet fuel permeated the air with a pungent odor.

Unable to wait any longer, Adrienne stepped into the doorway where they could see her. "Mama! Justin!"

Relief swept across their faces, and Justin jogged ahead to take her into his arms for the anticipated embrace, dropping the two bags at his feet.

"I was so worried about you!" he exclaimed. Pulling back from the embrace, his eyes examined her critically. "Are you all right? Did they hurt you?"

"I'm fine," she assured him. "Thanks to Bo and Roman. I'm just a little tired is all."

After a final squeeze and a kiss, Justin released her to her mother, who hugged her tightly, fighting back the tears of joy and relief.

"I'm so glad you're safe!" Jo said, her voice thick with emotion.

"It's okay, Mama," Adrienne said, her voice muffled against Jo's shoulder, which she was patting affectionately. "I'm fine."

While his wife greeting her mother, Justin turned to Bo and offered his hand. "Thanks for getting her back safely. You don't know how much it means to me. To us," he added with a glance toward Jo.

Bo shook his cousin's hand warmly. "Well, Adrienne gets a huge portion of the credit for her rescue for herself. That was one of the easiest take-downs and hostage recoveries that we've ever done. She recognized the location where she was being held, and when we demanded to talk to her as part of the negotiations, she was able to provide us with a clue without tipping off the kidnappers."

Jo squeezed her tighter for a moment, then released her. At the same time, Justin caressed her cheek with his hand. "I'm so proud of you."

"I tried to call on your cell phone to let you know I was safe, but it kept going into voice mail."

Justin withdrew his cell phone to examine it, confirming that the battery had exhausted its power. "I'll be damned. I must have forgotten to put it on the charger last night. I was so worried about you, I never even thought about it."

"Happens to me all the time," Bo said with a smile, then gestured toward the bags at Justin's feet. "So, is this all the luggage you brought with you?"

"Yes. We just threw some things together in case we needed to be here a few days."

"I hope you brought me a change of clothes," Adrienne said. "If not, I'm going to have to find a store to buy a few things. I've been wearing this same outfit since yesterday morning, and it isn't even one of my favorites!"

They laughed at her humor, but Justin nodded, "I brought both of us several changes of clothes, anticipating that you would want something else to wear once we got you back."

Jo could wait no longer. "Is it true? Is it really true that Steve is alive?"

"It's true, Mama. He looks wonderful!"

"It's true," Bo added at almost the same time. "Considering everything he's been through, I would have expected him to be worse for wear, but other than being a bit malnourished and out of shape, he looks just about like he did before."

"Kayla will take good care of him," Jo stated.

"She already is," Bo agreed.

"Where are the boys?" Adrienne asked. "They didn't come with you?"

"No. They're worried about you, but I figured a hostage situation was no place for four boys their age. I parceled them off to friends along with a stern warning about behavior. I need to call them to let them know you're safe."

"You can call from the safe house," Bo suggested. "We'll find a cord for your phone, or you can borrow one of ours."

Reaching out, Bo took Jo's luggage, and they rode the escalator up to the main level, then followed the flow of passengers toward the main entrance, bypassing the luggage carousel.

"It feels wonderful to be back in Salem," Jo said as they stepped through the door into the open air. "I loved living here, but after what happened with Steve, I never thought I'd come back here again."

"To be honest, neither did I," Adrienne agreed. She shuddered, remembering those horrible days of her brother's death and funeral, followed by the devastating events of her mother's temporary insanity and incarceration.

"Well, we're not going to dwell on all of that," Jo said, refusing to be drawn into the pain of the past. "Steve is alive, and that's all that matters!"

* * *

With the interview wrapped up and Carlton back in his cell, Shane left it up to Roman and his people to conduct the preliminary interviews with Jennings and Harding. Steve had been absolutely correct about Carlton, and the wealth of information he had provided would wrap up his own case, so as soon as he returned to the Inn, he placed a phone call to Thiessen.

"It's Carroll," he said as soon as his supervisor answered.

He could almost see Thiessen flinch in the brief pause that followed. "Bob?" he asked, incredulously. "Are you absolutely certain about that?"

"That's the name Carlton gave me. And I must add that he volunteered the information before I even asked him about it. I have no reason to doubt him."

"I just can't believe it could be Bob," Thiessen mused, very troubled and clearly upset by the information. "He's been a trusted agent for many years."

"Think about it, Dennis," Shane said. "His security clearance gives him access to the device vault. And his high security clearance also means that he isn't watched as closely as lesser agents. No one would think twice about seeing him going into the vault, especially if he was legitimately checking out other items at the same time. When you asked me to look into the matter, you knew it was almost certainly someone high up in the organization."

Thiessen sighed, heavily. "I know. It's just that I have long considered this man a friend. He was probably at the very bottom of my list of suspects. This disappoints me greatly."

"It's always a disappointment when a good agent goes bad," Shane agreed.

"Hell, I had lunch with him just yesterday! He was probably sitting across the table from me laughing about the fact that he has gotten away with this for so long!"

"Well, I don't know about that. You said the devices were most likely stolen years ago," Shane reminded him. "You said yourself that you only became aware of the missing items because they were being recalled do to upgrades. He probably hasn't even thought that much about them recently. He's confident he got away with it, and has moved on to other things, assuming that if the disappearances become known, it'll have happened long enough ago to diffuse any suspicions toward him."

"Yes, you're probably right. I'll notify security to bring him in for questioning. Did you get any other useful information out of this Carlton fellow?"

"We're still processing the information he gave us regarding the Steve Johnson kidnapping, but yes, it appears he will be a major contributor to bringing this event to a close."

"So, the Americans were agreeable with the concessions you made on his behalf?"

"They're more than agreeable. In fact, they're giving us completely jurisdiction over him as compensation for his testimony. They do expect him to return to the United States for trial, but other than that, he's our responsibility."

"That will be no problem," Thiessen confirmed. "I'm sure you can see that he arrives for trial when the time comes." He paused briefly, and Shane could hear some papers being shuffled in the background. "By the way, I had intended to tell you this a few days ago, had you kept in touch with us better. I sent some men up to Loughborough to search the general area this Johnson fellow said he had been kept, and we found a house that is without a doubt the place. There were I.S.A. alarms on all the exterior doors, an I.S.A. identification keypad, and other various sensors and alarms. It'll take them a few days to dismantle everything."

"I don't suppose they apprehended any additional suspects," Shane said.

"No, I'm afraid the place was deserted. They had a good look around and found the rooms in which Johnson was held prisoner. He was given one room plus a small bathroom. Just bare necessities, they report. Cold and drab."

"Just like he described."

"I understand your interest in this matter, given that Johnson was your brother in law, so when you get back tomorrow you can look into these matters, even though they really have nothing to do with us or the stolen devices."

Shane tensed slightly, knowing that Thiessen expected him to be back in London the next day, now that the assignment was over. "No, I will be staying here for a while on a personal matter."

Thiessen was quiet for several moments, and Shane could sense the tension growing in that silence before he finally said, "I really can't spare you right now, Shane. There is still a lot of work to be done on this case. I want you to interview Carroll."

"I know it's a bad time, Dennis, but I must insist. I will handle as much of the current case out of the Salem offices that I can, but I won't be returning to England until my business here is finished."

"And how long will that be?"

"I don't know. As long as it takes, I guess."

"I could pull rank," Thiessen warned.

"I hope you won't do that, because it won't change my mind," Shane countered.

"Might I inquire as to what is so important that you would risk your career for it?"

"As I said, it is a personal matter, but one I should have been putting first from the beginning."

"And nothing I can say will change your mind?"

"I can't think of one thing you could say that would change my mind."

That statement said it all, and Thiessen knew his colleague was not bluffing. He would resign before he would back down. "Very well, then. If it was anyone but you, I would begin disciplinary measures, but if it's as important as you seem to think, I'll let it pass this time. Send me a detailed email describing everything that transpired."

Shane was not intimidated by the threat of discipline, but it did give him an idea of where he stood within the organization. Thiessen's thinly veiled warning was a reminder than, regardless of how high up he was in the organization, he did not have autonomy to come and go as he pleased.

"All right. I'll stay in touch." He did not thank his supervisor for the extended time, a detail that did not escape Theissen's notice.

Shane disconnected the call, and began composing his detailed email to Thiessen describing the information he had gleaned from Carlton.


	50. Chapter 50

A/N: Sad to say that after a week in the hospital and another week in hospice, Mom passed away a few weeks ago. I am in the process of settling her accounts and all the details that go with that, but hopefully things will be calming down soon. Here is the next chapter.

* * *

Kayla stood in the doorway leading from the kitchen to the living room, leaning against the door jamb as she absently wiped a just-washed coffee cup with a dishtowel. Her eyes were riveted on her husband, watching him silently, wondering what was going through his mind.

Immediately following the conclusion of the interrogation of Lance Carlton, Roman had driven them back to the safe house, where Hope had remained with a mildly resentful Stephanie, attempting to placate the girl who had vocally maintained the opinion that she should have been permitted to accompany her parents into town. Hope was clearly happy to relinquish her duties back to Kayla, and she and Roman had not lingered to visit. There was much work to do on the case, so they had returned to the station as soon as Steve and Kayla were safely inside the house.

An easy lunch of bologna sandwiches and tomato soup had been eaten in near total silence at one end of the large conference table. Stephanie, still smoldering over the fact that she had been left behind, seemed to realize that her father was in no mood to hear her complaints, so she waited, determined to air her grievances later. After rising from the table, Steve had retreated to the living room where he sat moodily on the sofa, staring at the black screen of the television, his brow furrowed in contemplation. Kayla did not need to ask the source of his abrupt plunge into deep thought; she knew he was rehashing Carlton's interview, turning over every detail in his mind, and attaching it to the treatment he had received at the hands of his captors.

It had been painful for her to hear a firsthand account of the years he had been held prisoner, but it had been important that she was there with him to support him. Even now, she could still feel the tightness with which he had held her hand while Carlton had spoken.

Behind her, in the kitchen, Stephanie wiped the soup bowls dry and returned them to the cabinets, expressing her objection to the injustice and unfairness of being left at the house while her parents had seized the opportunity of an hour or two of freedom.

"I still don't understand why I couldn't have gone with you and Dad," the teen complained as she returned the final soup bowl to the cabinet and closed the wooden door. Passing the refrigerator, she opened it and removed a can of her favorite soda. "It would have been nice to get out of this house for a while, you know?"

Distracted by her husband's apparent depression, her daughter's objections to being left behind during the interrogation was a mere drone in the background, the words barely recognized. It was the popping sound of the tab being opened on the soda can that finally forced Kayla to blink herself back to full awareness.

She understood that Stephanie had felt left out, but she and Steve had not wanted to subject her to the things that would likely come out in the interview. They were things that they would explain to her later, on their terms.

"Mom, are you even listening to me?" Stephanie prompted, impatiently.

Withdrawing into the kitchen again, Kayla said, "I'm listening, Stephanie. I know you're bored, but we all have to deal with that. I promise, we'll be out of here soon. Most of those guys are in jail now, and it's just a matter of time before we catch Vaughn."

"It just isn't fair!" Stephanie protested. "You two got to escape this place for a while, but I was stuck here the whole time! If you didn't want me going to the jail with you, you could have let me spend some time with Jeannie. You could have dropped me off at the Pub and picked me up on the way back here. Uncle Roman wouldn't have minded."

Kayla couldn't help but smile at the youthful logic. "The Pub is miles out of Uncle Roman's way, and whether or not he would have minded is not the point. Driving you all over town would have defeated the purpose of being here at all, wouldn't it?'

"I would have been safe with Grandma and Grandpa."

"We don't know that. If Vaughn is watching the Pub, he might have seen an opportunity. We just can't risk it. All it would have taken was for you and Jeannie to step outside for a few seconds or move into an area where no one was around."

"We would have stayed inside," Stephanie protested.

"Would you have?" Kayla asked, pointedly. "I know you, Stephanie, and I know you're at an age where you're stretching your wings a bit, finding your independence, and there's nothing wrong with that. But this isn't the time to be taking unnecessary risks. You're old enough that I shouldn't even have to be explaining this to you."

Stephanie could not argue with that, but made a frustrated gesture at her inability to present a realistic argument. "Okay, but did you have to give me a babysitter while you were gone? That made me feel like a child!"

"Hope wasn't a babysitter, sweetie," Kayla said, patiently. "She's a police officer, and she was here to protect you from anyone who might be out there, waiting for a chance to get you alone."

Stephanie sighed in a typical annoyed teenager fashion, but did not offer any more arguments. Carrying her can of soda to the kitchen door, she looked at her father, still sitting moodily on the couch. "What's wrong with Dad?" she asked. "He's been so quiet ever since you got back."

"He's okay," Kayla told her, quietly. "After all those years he spent with those guys and everything he went through to escape from them, it just wasn't easy for him to face the men who held him prisoner like that, and to hear all those things they said."

"So, what did they say?" Stephanie asked, moving back into the kitchen.

Kayla's brief pause was barely discernible, but Stephanie noticed it. "They pretty much confirmed everything your father said. That they were hired to keep him from escaping, and that their employer is looking for something he thinks is in our old house."

Stephanie knew her mother was glossing over the interrogation, deliberately withholding the bad things to spare her the pain. "They were mean to him, weren't they?"

Kayla nodded somberly and affectionately reached out with one hand to gently brush a loose strand of blonde hair from her daughter's face. "Yes, I'm afraid they were. He hasn't told me the things they did to him and I'm not sure I even want to know. I certainly don't want him to talk about it if it's painful to him. One thing we found out that we didn't know before," she added, understanding her daughter's need to know some of what had happened. "Your father had a bad reaction to the drug they used to make him appear dead. They aren't sure if they overdosed him or if they had just injected him too many times to keep him under, but something happened during the last dose that . . ." She shuddered and cringed at the impact of the words, even before they were spoken. "It nearly killed him. One of those men said that he was under a long time, and it was years before he was himself again."

"So that's why they were holding him so long instead of letting him go?"

"Yes, but . . ." She stopped, reluctant to complete the sentence, to validate their intentions with words.

Stephanie understood. "They weren't going to let him go, were they? They were going to kill him, once they got whatever it is they want from him."

"Yes, it appears so."

Stephanie looked down at the soda she had placed on the countertop, pondering how close she had come to never getting the chance to know her father. "Wow, that must have been awful, listening to the things those guys were saying."

"It was."

"So, what are they going to do with those guys?"

"I don't know. I would expect they will be tried, and if convicted will spend some time in prison, but I don't know if that will be here or in England. Maybe both, since they committed crimes in both countries. One of them volunteered a lot of information, so Shane has suggested the law be lenient with him. They hope his testimony may help capture Vaughn. He's the one they're really after. Him and whoever is funding this project."

Stephanie sighed again, bewildered by the mystery that had all of them puzzled. "I just don't understand it. What could be so important that they would do all this? I mean, it must have cost a fortune to hold Dad for that long."

"That is what we're all wondering. And not only that, they went to extreme lengths to keep your father there. They stole a lot of items from the I.S.A. to use as security devices to alert them if he tried to -"

The intercom buzzed, the harsh, unexpected sound that made all of them jump in startled reaction to it. Stephanie nearly dropped her can of soda.

"I hate that sound!" she said, vehemently, slamming the half-drunk can down on the countertop.

Kayla did not respond, even though she agreed. The intercom buzzer was wired so that it could be heard in every room, but it seemed especially startling in the kitchen.

"Mr. Johnson, Bo Brady is here along with your mother, sister, and brother in law," the guard announced from the gate.

"Send them in," Steve responded.

Kayla returned to the living room, but Stephanie stopped at the kitchen door to watch unobtrusively.

Removing his feet from the coffee table, Steve got up slowly, rubbing his hands against his jeans as if to dry them. "I can't believe I'm so nervous about meeting Momma again," he said when Kayla joined him.

"Well, it's been a long time," Kayla said, gently. "I'm sure she's every bit as nervous and excited, and absolutely elated that her son is still alive."

"Yeah," he agreed. "I wasn't even this nervous the first time I saw her after she had left me in the orphanage. A lot of years had passed, but I'm a lot more nervous this time around." He finger-combed his hair then rubbed his hand along the angle of his jaw, smoothing down his beard. Last, he readjusted the eye patch. "Do I look okay?

Kayla smiled. "You look wonderful, but I don't think Jo is going to care how you look. She's just going to be happy that you're back, safe and sound."

"Okay, I'm ready for this," he said, more to himself than anyone else.

A few moments later, they heard Bo's SUV enter the clearing and come to a stop near the front porch. It was followed by the sounds of the car doors being opened and closed, and then there were footsteps on the porch. Steve felt his heart beating a little faster while Bo keyed in the security code, then opened the door.

Bo entered first. "Hey, Steve," he said in greeting, then stepped aside for the others to enter. Jo Johnson entered next, and stopped just inside to stare at the son she thought she had lost fifteen years earlier, her eyes verifying the joyous news she had been given. Her hand went to her lips, as if to stop them from trembling, and tears filled her large blue eyes.

"Stevie," she whispered, moving toward him, arms outstretched.

"Momma," he responded, taking her into his arms for a much-anticipated embrace.

With her sense of touch the final proof that her son was really alive and was truly there, Jo wept unashamedly. Clinging to him in euphoric exhilaration, she was so overcome with emotion that she sagged in his arms, weakened by the overwhelming elation. He supported her, alternately rubbing her back and patting her while she wept with joy.

"It's okay, Momma," he said. "Everything's okay now."

Justin stood quietly to one side with his wife, watching the reunion between mother and son, while Adrienne and Kayla wiped tears from their cheeks. Stephanie, still standing in the kitchen doorway, sniffled and rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes.

Pulling back, Jo cupped her son's face in her hands, gazing up into his eye. "If I had known you were alive and being held against your will, nothing on this earth would have kept me from going over there and demanding your freedom," she declared. "I swear I would have gotten you out, one way or another!"

"That would have been a sight," he said jokingly in an effort to cover up his own emotion. "You, Kayla, and Adrienne taking on those crooks like a platoon of storm troopers!"

"They would have been no match for the three of us!" Kayla said.

"You can bet on that!" Adrienne agreed.

"Hope and I would have been there with them," Bo said.

"And so would I," Justin said. "Steve, we're all glad you're back."

Jo released him, and he extended a friendly hand to his sister's husband, who took it firmly. "Thanks, Justin," he said. "Thanks for bringing Momma up here. It means a lot to me."

"I don't think a herd of wild horses, and certainly not a band of criminals, could have kept her away."

"I never thought I could be this happy again!" Jo exclaimed, giving her son another hug.

"I know what you mean," Kayla agreed. "I thought I was doing well on my own, but now that I have him back, the happiness I feel now makes me realize that I was merely existing. I was content with my life with Stephanie and my job, but I never stopped missing him." She looked into his face, grateful that he was there with her, and he reached out to take her hand. Snapping out of her mood, she gestured toward the arrangement of the sofa and chairs. "Let's sit down and catch up. Can I get you anything?"

"A glass of iced tea would be wonderful, if it isn't any trouble," Jo replied. "It was a long flight."

"It's no trouble at all," Kayla assured her.

"Go ahead and sit down, Mom. I'll get it," Stephanie offered from the kitchen door, then she looked around the room. "Anyone else want some?"

Nods and verbal affirmative responses indicated that everyone would accept a glass of iced tea, so while her parents sat down to visit with their guests, Stephanie went into the kitchen to brew a pot of tea.

Over the next hour and a half, Steve described some of the things he had experienced at the hands of his kidnappers and answered the expected questions while they all listened attentively, shaking their heads with dismay and disbelief. Bo offered his thoughts on the law enforcement side of the issue.

"That is just so incredible," Adrienne said. "I never in a million years would have expected that something like this could happen. Certainly not to our family!"

Justin was interested in the legal ramifications and the deal that had been offered to one of them in exchange for information to help prosecute the others. "So, this Carlton guy is basically being allowed to get off scot-free? Are you okay with that?"

Steve thought about that for a moment, giving the question consideration before answering. "Well, I'm sure they will give him some kind of punishment, but you're right. Compared to the years I lost because of him and the others, community service may as well be scot-free. He'll be able to go home to his family in a few weeks. I was separated from mine for years. I missed seeing Stephanie grow up, missed her first birthday, her first steps, her first words, her first day at school. I'll never get any of that back, and it isn't fair. So no, it doesn't sit well with me, but of all the guards, I have to say that he was the kindest to me, and the only one I felt had a conscience where I was concerned."

"He could have gone to the authorities at any time, but he chose not to," Kayla said. "And I'd be willing to bet he did everything he could to find you and bring you back once you escaped. And if you hadn't escaped, if they had brought this whole sordid affair to a conclusion, what would he have done when you weren't needed any longer? Would he have stepped in and tried to help you? Or would he have allowed Vaughn's people to murder you?"

Steve shrugged. "Good question. Still, he may be risking his life by agreeing to testify against those guys. That does count for something. He's always going to be looking over his shoulder, wondering if one of Alamain's henchmen is back there. I feel bad that his family may be in danger too."

"It didn't seem to bother him too much that your family was in danger, once you had escaped," Kayla retorted. "Not enough to come forward and put a stop to it. Personally, I'd like to see him put away for a long time."

"You realize, of course, that you have ample grounds for a lawsuit," Justin said. "This type of case isn't my area of expertise, but I'd say you have an excellent shot at a substantial settlement from both Vaughn and Alamain."

Steve's expression indicated that thoughts of a lawsuit had never crossed his mind, and he exchanged a surprised glance with Kayla. "Well, as much as I would like to see these guys, especially Vaughn and Alamain, taken for everything they've got, I really don't want their money. It's . . . I don't know, it's hard to explain. It's 'dirty' money, if you know what I mean. It won't change what they did to me, what they took from me."

"No, but compensation could help get you started on a new life," Bo said. "Normally, I'm not a person who approves of lawsuits, but in this case, I will make an exception. There is nothing frivolous about this. After everything they did to you, they owe you at least that much."

"Lawsuits generally take longer to settle than they're worth in the long run," Kayla said. "There are always appeals that go on for years, and this case will be complicated through international law. Alamain has an army of crooked attorneys who will do everything they can to protect him. I'm just not sure it will be worth the effort to take him on like that. We don't need the money, and frankly, I'd just like to put this all behind us and move on."

Justin nodded. "I can't blame you for that, but you know it's an option if you ever decide to pursue it."

"We'll keep it in mind."

Jo drained the last of her second glass of iced tea. "That was delicious, Stephanie."

"Thank you, Grandma," Stephanie said, starting to rise. "Can I get you another glass?"

"No, no. Keep your seat," Jo said, waving her granddaughter back into her chair. "I've had all I can hold in one sitting. I'll just return the glass to the sink. I need to stretch my legs a bit."

Steve quickly downed what was left in his glass. "I'll go with you," he offered.

"You don't need to do that," she protested. "Keep your seat, son. I can find the kitchen."

"What, you don't want to spend a few minutes alone with your oldest son?" he quipped, his eye twinkling happily.

"Why, of course I do," she protested, pretending to be indignant, but she knew he was joking.

Together, they walked into the kitchen, and placed their glasses in the sink.

"They forgot to install a dishwasher in this place," Steve explained. "Kayla's all right with that, but Stephanie thinks we've gone back to the dark ages."

Jo laughed. "She's a good girl, but I'm afraid young people today have no idea how good they have it."

"I'm not so sure they do have it so good," Steve said, thoughtfully. "I think past generations actually had it better. We didn't have the conveniences they do now or all those gadgets that provide their entertainment, but we learned self-reliance, how to work for the things we wanted or needed. As kids, we learned how to play and how to use our imaginations. Nothing at all is left to the imagination these days."

She nodded. "I agree."

"So," he said, changing the subject abruptly. "You know pretty much everything that has happened to me over the last fifteen years, but what about you? How have you been?"

She froze briefly and took her time before answering, pondering the subtle implications of his question and the reason behind it. She understood exactly what he was asking. Feeling a little self-conscious and perhaps with a sense of being waylaid, she said, "Kayla told you about what happened, didn't she?"

"She told me a lot of things," he replied, keeping his voice light and nonjudgmental. "She told me that my old friend, Marcus Hunter, passed away a few years ago. Man, that was a shock. He always seemed the picture of health."

"He was a good man," she said. "And a good friend."

"Yes, he was. I miss him terribly. Kayla also told me about Adrienne and Dimples adopting twins before having a child of her own, which is fantastic. I already knew about him having a baby with that witch – sorry," he added quickly when his mother directed a reproachful glare his direction. "With Angelica. Devereaux, who is anything but angelic." He paused to scratch his head in utter bewilderment. "What the hell was that boy thinking?"

Jo shook her head in agreement with his question, but did not answer in words that would appear critical of disparaging of the son in law she adored.

"Kayla told me that things were rough for Adrienne and Justin both, for a while, but they both seem very happy, now," Steve continued. "She also mentioned that the three of you are living happily in Dallas, and that Justin's law practice is going well. And yes, she told me about what happened to you. I hope you don't hold that against her."

"No, no!" she responded quickly. "Of course not. Of course, you would want to know everything that happened while you were away. It's just . . . well, it wasn't a very good time in my life. Certainly not one I'm proud of. And it's something I'd just as soon forget," she added with a sigh. "I took a life, son, and that is something that's hard to live with."

He placed his arm around her, drawing her closer. "We all do things we're not proud of later, Momma. Kayla explained that . . ." Unable to use the word "insane" in connection with his mother, he concluded, "Well, she said you weren't in your right mind when it happened."

"I don't even remember most of that time, and I'm perfectly happy to leave it at that. I felt like I was in a fog all the time, just numb with grief. The doctor at Bayview said I was blocking it out. I don't understand how all that stuff with the mind works, why we behave the way we do in certain situations, but one thing I'll never forget is the hopelessness and the depression after you were gone. We'd had so little time together. Only five years when you were a little boy, and then only three more years after I found you again. It wasn't fair."

He pressed his lips against the side of her head. "I know, Momma. And I wasted a lot of time resenting you for leaving me in the orphanage."

"Lord knows, I deserved it," she said in a frustrated, self-loathing voice.

"No, you didn't," he contradicted. "You did what you felt you had to do to protect Jack and me. You may have gone about it the wrong way, but you loved us. I understand that, now."

"I did love you, son," she reaffirmed. "I always will. It's just that there were few options for abused women back then. There was no place to turn, no one to help. We were always told to go home and be better wives, because the abuse was probably something we brought on ourselves." She shuddered. "There was so much ignorance in those days about things like that."

"I know. Kayla explained that to me, even when I didn't want to hear it."

"She was also so supportive of Adrienne and me, so helpful," Jo said, gratefully.

"That's Kayla," he agreed. "She has a heart like no other, and she doesn't have a cruel bone in her body. I don't know where I'd be today if not for her. She made me see things in myself that I never knew existed."

Jo leaned into him, her arms going around him again in a motherly embrace. "I love you so much, Steve."

"I love you too, Momma."

She drew away then. "Now, let's get back to the others before they start wondering about us."

Together, they returned to the living room and took their seats again.

"So, what were you talking about while we were gone?" Steve asked, cheerfully.

"Well, I was trying to convince Justin and Adrienne to stick around at least a few more days before they head back to Dallas," Kayla said.

"We came up here on the spur of the moment," Justin explained. "I have cases pending, clients who are depending on me. That's why I had gone into the office on Saturday; to try to wrap some of them up before we go to trial, but then I got that call from the police telling me that Adrienne had been kidnapped, and I'm afraid everything else sort of went out of my head."

"And the boys are back in Dallas, parceled off to friends," Adrienne added. "They're good boys, but you know how teenagers are."

"Well, send for them," Kayla urged. "I'd love to see them!"

"Yeah, so would I," Steve agreed. "I've never seen them." His eye swept the small living room. "Damn, I wish we had more room in this house. We'd just move all of you in here."

"I'm sure Mom and Pop would be happy to put you up at the Pub," Kayla suggested.

"No, I couldn't impose!" Jo protested. "I am going to stay here to get to know my son again, but I'll take a room at the Inn. And I won't make a nuisance of myself, I promise. I know the three of you are getting reacquainted yourselves."

"You could never be a nuisance, Grandma," Stephanie said. "It'll be great having you around."

Justin and Adrienne looked at each other. "What do you think?" she asked.

"You'd like to stay here, wouldn't you?" he asked.

"Yes, I really would."

"Okay, tell you what. You two stay here, and I'll fly back to Dallas just long enough to wrap up those two cases, then the boys and I will fly back up in a day or two. How does that sound?"

"Sounds perfect."

"All right, then." Turning to his cousin, he said, "Bo, if you wouldn't mind, would you take us to the Inn, and then run me out to the airport again?"

"I'd be happy to."

"You'll come back this evening, right?" Kayla urged. "There's a nice ham in the fridge that Hope picked up for us. I could bake it for supper along with some sweet potatoes and green beans. Oh! Someone will need to stop at the store for hot rolls. It's the one thing she forgot."

"We can do that," Adrienne said.

"Could you bring Jeannie with you?" Stephanie begged. "I need someone my own age to talk to for a while."

Bo smiled. "I'll see what I can do, but of course, that's up to Kim and Shane."

"Thanks, Uncle Bo."

Everyone stood up, and Steve and Kayla saw their guests to the door.

"We'll see you this evening, then," Kayla said.

"And we'll come early enough to help with supper," Jo promised. "And don't try to argue!" she added, quickly.

Kayla laughed. "All right, I won't."


End file.
